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THE ROMANY RYE 


A SEQUEL TO “ LAVENGRO ” 


By GEORGE BORROW 

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A NEW EDITION 

CONTAINING THE UNALTERED TEXT OF THE ORIGINAL 
ISSUE, WITH NOTES, ETC., BY THE AUTHOR OF 
“ THE LIFE OF GEORGE BORROW ” 



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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, NEW YORK 
JOHN MURRAY, LONDON 
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ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS 



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OMANY RYE 

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A SEQUEL TO “LAVENGRO.” 


By GEORGE BORROW, 

AUTHOR OF 

*‘THE BIBLE IN SPAIN,” “THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN,” ETC, 


“ Fear God, and take your own part.” 


IN TWO VOLUMES— VOL. I. 


LONDON: 

JOHN MUEEAY, ALBEMAELE STEEET. 

1857, 






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ADVERTISEMENT. 

(1857O 

It having been frequently stated in print that the book 
called Lavengro was got up expressly against the popish 
agitation in the years 1850-51, the author takes this oppor- 
tunity of saying that the principal part of that book was 
written in the year ’43, that the whole of it was completed 
before the termination of the year ’46, and that it was in 
the hands of the publisher in the year ’48.^ And here he 
cannot forbear observing, that it was the duty of that 
publisher to have rebutted a statement which he knew to 
be a calumny ; and also to have set the public right on 
another point dealt with in the Appendix to the present 
work, more especially as he was the proprietor of a Review 
enjoying, however undeservedly, a certain sale and repu- 
tation. 

But take your own part, boy ! 

For if you don’t, no one will take it for you. 

With respect to Lavengro, the author feels that he has 
no reason to be ashamed of it. In writing that book he 
did his duty, by pointing out to his country-people the 
nonsense which, to the greater part of them, is as the breath 
of their nostrils, and which, if indulged in, as it probably 
will be, to the same extent as hitherto, will, within a very 
few years, bring the land which he most loves beneath a 
foreign yoke — he does not here allude to the yoke of 
Rome. 

Instead of being ashamed, has he not rather cause to 
be proud of a book which has had the honour of being 
rancorously abused and execrated by the very people of 
whom the country has least reason to be proud ? ^ 

“’49”. , . , 

“execrated by every unmanly scoundrel, every sycophantic lacquey, 
and every political and religious renegade in Britain ”, 


“ One day Cogia Efendy went to a bridal festival. The masters of the feast, 
observing his old and coarse apparel, paid him no consideration whatever. The 
Cogia saw that he had no chance of notice ; so going out, he hurried to his house, 
and, putting on a splendid pelisse, returned to the place of festival. No sooner 
did he enter the door than the masters advanced to meet him, and saying, ‘ Wel- 
come, Cogia Efendy,’ with all imaginable honour and reverence, placed him at 
the head of the table, and said, ‘ Please to eat. Lord Cogia ’. Forthwith the 
Cogia, taking hold of one of the furs of his pelisse, said, ‘ Welcome my pelisse ; 
please to eat, my lord The masters looking at the Cogia with great surprise, 
said, ‘ What are you about ? ’ Whereupon the Cogia replied, “As it is quite 
evident that all the honour paid, is paid to my pelisse, I think it ought to have 
some food too ’.’’—Pleasantries of the Cogia Nasr Eddin Efendi. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Making of the Linch-pin — The Sound Sleeper — Breakfast — The Pos- 
tillion’s Departure 


CHAPTER II. 

The Man in Black — The Emperor of Germany — Nepotism — Donna Olympia 
— Omnipotence — Camillo Astalli — The Five Propositions 


CHAPTER III. 

Necessity of Religion — The Great Indian One — Image-worship— Shakes- 
peare — The Pat Answer — Krishna — Amen 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Proposal — The Scotch Novel— Latitude — Miracles — Pestilent Heretics 
— Old Fraser — Wonderful Texts — No Armenian 


CHAPTER V. 

Fresh Arrivals — Pitching the Tent — Certificated Wife — High-flying Notions 


CHAPTER VI. 

The Promised Visit — Roman Fashion — Wizard and Witch — Catching at 
Words — The Two Females — Dressing of Hair — The New Roads — 
Belle’s Altered Appearance— Herself Again ^ , 


CHAPTER VII. 

The Festival — The Gypsy Song — Piramus of Rome— The Scotchman — 
Gypsy Names. 


PAGE 

I 

S 

9 

i6 

28 

32 

40 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PAGE 

The Church— The Aristocratical Pew — Days of Yore — The Clergyman — “ In 

what would a Man be Profited ? ” 4^ 


CHAPTER IX. 

Return from Church— The Cuckoo and Gypsy — Spiritual Discourse . . 53 


CHAPTER X. 

Sunday Evening — Ursula — Action at Law — Meridiana — Married Already . 60 


CHAPTER XL 

Ursula’s Tale — The Patteran — The Deep Water — Second Husband . . 72 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Dingle at Night — The Two Sides of the Question — Roman Females — 

Filling the Kettle — The Dream — The Tall Figure 78 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Visit to the Landlord — His Mortifications— Hunter and his Clan — Resolution 86 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Preparations for the Fair — The Last Lesson — The Verb Siriel ... 89 


CHAPTER XV. 


The Dawn of Day — The Last Farewell — Departure for the Fair — The Fine 
Horse — Return to the Dingle — No Isopel 


95 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Gloomy Forebodings— The Postman’s Mother — The Letter — Bears and 
Barons — The Best of Advice 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The Public-house — Landlord on His Legs Again— A Blow in Season — The 

Way of the World— The Grateful Mind — The Horse’s Neigh . . 106 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mr. Petulengro’s Device — The Leathern Purse — Consent to Purchase a 
Horse 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Trying the Horse— The Feats of Tawno— Man with the Red Waistcoat — 
Disposal of Property 


CHAPTER XX. 

Farewell to the Romans — The Landlord and his Niece — Set out as a Tra- 
veller 


CHAPTER XXI. 

An Adventure on the Roads — The Six Flint Stones — A Rural Scene — Mead 
— The Old Man and his Bees 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The Singular Noise — Sleeping in a Meadow— The Book— Cure for Wakeful- 
ness — Literary Tea Party — Poor Byron 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Drivers and Front Outside Passengers — Fatigue of Body and Mind — 
Unexpected Greeting — My Inn — The Governor — Engagement 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

An Inn of Times gone by — A First-rate Publican — Hay and Corn — Old- 
fashioned Ostler — Highwaymen — Mounted Police — Grooming 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Stable Hartshorn — How to Manage a Horse on a Journey —Your Best Friend 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Stage-coachmen of England— A Bully Served Out— Broughton’s Guard 
— The Brazen Head 


PAGE 

113 


117 


132 


124 


I3I 


136 


140 


14s 


150 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Francis Ardry — His Misfortunes — Dog and Lion Fight — Great Men of the 
World 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Mr. Platitude and the Man in Black— The Postillion’s Adventures— The 
Lone House — A Goodly Assemblage 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Deliberations with Self— Resolution— Invitation to Dinner — The Commercial 
Traveller — The Landlord’s Offer — The Comet Wine .... 


CHAPTER XXX. 

f 

Triumphal Departure— No Season like Youth — Extreme Old Age — Beautiful 
England — The Ratcatcher — A Misadventure 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Novel Situation — The Elderly Individual — The Surgeon — A Kind Offer — 
Chimerical Ideas — Strange Dream 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Morning after a Fall — The Teapot — Unpretending Hospitality — The 
Chinese Student 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Convalescence — The Surgeon’s Bill — Letter of Recommendation — Com- 
mencement of the Old Man’s History 


CHAPTER XXXIV. - 

The Old Man’s Story continued— Misery in the Head — The Strange Marks 
— Tea-dealer from London — Difficulties of the Chinese Language . 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


PAGE 

158 


163 


170 


175 


179 


i8s 


191 


201 


The Leave-taking — Spirit of the Hearth — What’s o’clock 


. 209 


CONTENTS. xiii 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

PAGE 

Arrival at Horncastle — The Inn and Ostlers — The Garret — The Figure of a 

Man with a Candle . . . 211 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Horncastle Fair 214 

# CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

High Dutch 221 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The Hungarian 223 

CHAPTER XL. 

The Horncastle Welcome— Tzernebock and Bielebock 238 

CHAPTER XLI. 

The Jockey’s Tale— Thieves’ Latin — Liberties with Coin— The Smasher in 

Prison— Old Fulcher — Every one has his Gift— Fashion of the English . 244 

CHAPTER XLII. 

A Short - tempered Person — Gravitation — The Best Endowment — Mary 
Fulcher — Fair Dealing — Horse- witchery — Darius and his Groom — The 
Jockey’s Tricks — The Two Characters — The Jockey's Song . . . 258 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

The Church 273 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

An Old Acquaintance 276 

CHAPTER XLV. 

Murtagh’s Tale 283 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

PAGE 

Murtagh’s Story continued — The Priest, Exorcist, and Thimble-engro — 

How to Check a Rebellion 290 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

Departure from Horncastle— Recruiting Sergeant — Kauloes and Lolloes . 300 


APPENDIX. 

CHAPTER I. 

A Word for Lavengrc 302 

CHAPTER II. 

On Priestcraft 310 

CHAPTER HI. 

On Foreign Nonsense 317 

CHAPTER IV. 

On Gentility Nonsense — Illustrations of Gentility 320 

CHAPTER V. 

Subject of Gentility continued 323 

CHAPTER VI. 

On Scotch Gentility Nonsense— Charlie o’er the Waterism .... 334 

CHAPTER VII. 


Same subject continued . 


• 341 


^CONTENTS. XV 

CHAPTER VIII. 

PAGE 

On Canting Nonsense 346 

CHAPTER IX. 

Pseudo- Critics 354 

CHAPTER X. 

Pseudo-Radicals 362 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Old Radical 368 


Editor’s Notes 379 

Gypsy List 389 


Bibliography 


393 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


East Dereham, Norfolk {photogravure), (Referred 
TO AS “ Pretty D George Borrow’s Birth- 
place) Frontispiece 


The Old Church, St. Giles, at Willenhall, 

Staffordshire (Rebuilt 1867). . ... To face page 48 / 


Porch of St. Nicholas Church, East Dereham . 





The Old “Bull’s Head,” Wolverhampton Street, 

Willenhall ,, 106 ^ 


The “Swan” Inn, Stafford (“My Inn — a very 

LARGE BUILDING WITH AN ARCHWAY”) 

High Street, Horncastle 

The Horse Fair, Horncastle 


136 y 
215 / 



273 > . 


Horncastle Church in 1820 (since restored) 


THE ROMANY RYE 


(1857.) 

CHAPTER I 

I AWOKE at the first br^k of day, and, leaving the postillion fast 
asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and 
dripping. I lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. 
I then ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we 
had left it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud- 
stone near it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about 
prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and axle-tree. The 
latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and the 
wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only 
slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the 
chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which. 
I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took 
out the linch-pin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to 
serve me as a model. 

I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge. 
With a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who 
happens to see an acquaintance when his mind is occupied 
with important business, I forthwith set about my work. Select- 
ing a piece of iron which I thought would serve my purpose, I 
placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows in a furious manner, 
soon made it hot ; then seizing it with the tongs, I laid it on the 
anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to the 
rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle 
sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up, and 
retreated towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely 
sent in her direction alighting on her knee. I found the making 
of a linch-pin no easy matter ; it was, however, less difficult than 
the fabrication of a pony-shoe ; my work, indeed, was much 
facilitated by my having another pin to look at. In about three- 

I 


2 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had 
produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve. During all 
this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the 
postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance at first 
alarmed me : I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking in- 
to the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest sleep. 
“He must surely be descended from one of the seven sleepers,” 
said I, as I turned away, and resumed my work. My work 
finished, I took a little oil, leather and sand, and polished the 
pin as well as I could; then, summoning Belle, we both went to 
the chaise, where, with her assistance, I put on the wheel. The 
linch-pin which I had made fitted its place very well, and having 
replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise for some time with my 
heart full of that satisfaction which result^from the consciousness 
of having achieved a great action ; then, after looking at Belle in 
the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, which did not 
come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, followed 
by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast ; and 
I taking the kettle went and filled it at the spring. Having hung 
it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was still 
sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a start, 
and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not 
unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, 
looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. “ I had 
quite forgot,” said he, as he got up, “ where I was, and all that 
happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole affair, 
thunder-storm, thunder-bolt, frightened horses, and all your 
kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses ; I hope 
we shall be able to repair the damage.” “ The damage is already 
quite repaired,” said I, “as you will see, if you come to the 
field above.” “You don’t say so,” said the postillion, coming 
out of the tent; “well, I am mightily beholden to you. Good- 
morning, young gentlewoman,” said he, addressing Belle, who, 
having finished her preparations was seated near the fire. “ Good 
morning, young man,’ said Belle, “I suppose you would be 
glad of some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the 
kettle does not boil.” “ Come and look at your chaise,” said I ; 
“ but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been 
making did not awake you ; for three-quarters of an hour at least 
I was hammering close at your ear.” “ I heard you all the 
time,” said the postillion, “but your hammering made me sleep 
all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning 
sleep. There’s a forge close by the room where I sleep when 


THE POSTILLION'S DEPARTURE, 


3 


1825.] 


I’m at home, at my inn ; for we have all kinds of conveniences 
at my inn — forge, carpenter’s shop, and wheelwright’s — so that 
when I heard you hammering I thought, no doubt, that it was the 
old noise, and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn.” 
We nov7 ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his 
chaise. He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and 
gave a loud laugh. “Is it not well done?” said I. “It will 
do till I get home,” he replied. “And that is all you have to 
say?” I demanded. “And that’s a good deal,” said he, “con- 
sidering who made it. But don’t be offended,” he added, “ I 
shall prize it all the more for its being made by a gentleman, and 
no blacksmith ; and so will my governor, when I show it to 
him. I shan’t let it remain where it is, but will keep it, as a 
remembrance of you, as long as I live.” He then again rubbed 
his hands with great glee, and said : “ I will now go and see after 
my horses, and then to breakfast, partner, if you please ”. Sud- 
denly, however, looking at his hands, he said, “ Before sitting 
down to breakfast I am in the habit of washing my hands and 
face ; I suppose you could not furnish me with a little soap and 
water”. “ As much water as you please,” said I, “but if you 
want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentlewoman for 
some.” “By no means,” said the postillion, “ water will do at a 
pinch.” “Follow me,” said I, and leading'^him to the pond of 
the frogs and newts, I said, “this is my ewer; you are welcome to 
part of it — the water is so soft that it is scarcely necessary to add 
soap to it;” then lying down on the bank, I plunged my head 
into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, and afterwards 
wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin of 
the pond. “ Bravo,” said the postillion, “ I see you know how 
to make a shift”: he then followed my example, declared he 
never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, said, 
“ he would go and look after his horses ”. 

We then went to look after the horses, which we found not 
much the worse for having spent the night in the open air. My 
companion again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, 
leaving the animals to discuss their corn, returned with me to the 
dingle, where we found the kettle boiling. We sat down, and 
Belle made tea, and did the honours of the meal. The postillion 
was in high spirits, ate heartily, and, to Belle’s evident satis- 
faction, declared that he had never drank better tea in his life, or 
indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said that he must 
now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for him to 
return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him 


4 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


farewell. The postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advanc- 
ing close up to her — for what purpose I cannot say — whereupon 
Belle, withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which 
caused the postillion to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly 
sheepish look. Recovering himself, however, he made a low 
bow, and proceeded up the path. I attended him, and helped to 
harness his horses and put them to the vehicle ; he then shook 
me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip mounted to his 
seat ; ere he drove away he thus addressed me : “ If ever I forget 
your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash my 
buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may 
depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before 
you, and no expense to either, for I will give both of you the 
best of characters to the governor, who is the very best fellow 
upon all the road. As for your linch-pin, I trust it will serve till 
I get home, when I will take it out and keep it in remembrance 
of you all the days of my life ” : then giving the horses a jerk 
with his reins, he cracked his whip and drove off. 

I returned to the dingle. Belle had removed the breakfast 
things, and was busy in her own encampment. Nothing occurred, 
worthy of being related, for two hours, at the end of which time 
Belle departed on a short expedition, and I again found myself 
alone in the dingle. 


CHAPTER 11. 


In the evening I received another visit from the man in black. 
I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting 
in the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to 
employ myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagree- 
able to me. I produced the Hollands and glass from my tent, 
where Isopel Berners had requested me to deposit them, and also 
some lump sugar, then taking the gotch I fetched water from the 
spring, and, sitting down, begged the man in black to help 
himself; he was not slow in complying with my desire, and 
prepared for himself a glass of Hollands and water with a lump of 
sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with evident 
satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of “Go 
to Rome for money,” when he last left the dingle, took the 
liberty, after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, where- 
upon, with a he ! he ! he ! he replied : “ Your idea was not quite 
so original as I supposed. After leaving you the other night, I 
remembered having read of an Emperor of Germany who con- 
ceived the idea of applying to Rome for money, and actually put 
it into practice. 

“ Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the 
family of the Barbarini, nicknamed the Mosche, or Flies, from 
the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. The 
Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to 
defend the Church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of 
Sweden, who was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity 
to the Pope for a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his 
relations, whose cellars were at that time full of the money of the 
Church, which they had been plundering for years, refused to lend 
him a scudo ; whereupon a pasquinade picture was stuck up at 
Rome, representing the Church lying on a bed, gashed with 
dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were sucking 
her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with 
a miserable face, requesting a little money towards carrying on 
the war against the heretics, to which the poor Church was made 
to say : ‘ How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see 

(5) 


6 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


that the flies have sucked me to the very bones ? ’ Which story,” 
said he, “ shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was 
not quite so original as 1 imagined the other night, though utterly 
preposterous. 

•‘This affair,” said he, “^occurred in what were called the 
days of nepotism. Certain popes, who wished to make themselves 
in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded them- 
selves with their nephews and the rest of their family, who sucked 
the Church and Christendom as much as they could, none doing 
so more effectually than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at 
whose death, according to the book called the Nipotismo di Ro?na^ 
there were in the Barbarini family two hundred and twenty-seven 
governments, abbeys and high dignities, and so much hard cash 
in their possession, that three score and ten mules were scarcely 
sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina.” 
He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared 
better whilst the popes were thus independent, as it was less 
sucked, whereas before and after that period it was sucked by 
hundreds instead of tens, by the cardinals and all their relations 
instead of by the Pope and his nephews only. 

Then, alter drinking rather copiously of his Hollands, he said 
that it was certainly no bad idea of the popes to surround them- 
selves with nephews, on whom they bestowed great Church 
dignities, as by so doing they were tolerably safe from poison, 
whereas a pope, if abandoned to the cardinals, might at any time 
be made away with by them, provided they thought that he lived 
too long, or that he seemed disposed to do anything which they 
disliked ; adding, that Ganganelli would never have been poisoned 
provided he had had nephews about him to take care of his life, 
and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a bustling 
stirring brother’s wife like Donna Olympia. He then with a 
he ! he ! he ! asked me if I had ever read the book called the 
Nipotismo di Roma, and on my replying in the negative, he told 
me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he 
occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate 
to me anecdotes out of the Nipotismo di Roma, about the 
successor of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna Olympia, 
showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, 
and kept the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures 
plundered Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope, until 
Christendom, becoming enraged, insisted that he should put her 
away, which he did for a time, putting a nephew — one Camillo 
Astalli — in her place, in which, however, he did not continue 


THE MAN IN BLACK. 


7 


1825-] 


long ; for the Pope conceiving a pique against him, banished him 
from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took care of his 
food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died. 

I said that I only wondered that between pope and cardinals 
the whole system of Rome had not long ifallen to the ground, and 
was told, in reply, that its not having fallen was the strongest 
proof of its vital power, and the absolute necessity for the 
existence of the system. That the system, notwithstanding its 
occasional disorders, went on. Popes and cardinals might prey 
upon its bow'els, and sell its interests, but the system survived. 
The cutting off of this or that member was not able to cause 
Rome any vital loss ; for, as soon as she lost a member, the loss 
was supplied by her own inherent vitality ; though her popes had 
been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by popes; and 
though priests occasionally poisoned popes, cardinals, and each 
other, after all that had been, and might be, she had still, and 
would ever have, her priests, cardinals and pope. 

Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, 
I determined to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from 
him all I could with respect to the papal system, and told him 
that he would particularly oblige me by telling me who the Pope 
of Rome was ; and received for answer, that he was an old man 
elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair, who, 
immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to 
God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, 
and asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not 
always preserve himself from poison, even when fenced round by 
nephews, or protected by a bustling woman, he, after taking a 
long sip of Hollands and water, told^ me that I must not expect 
too much from omnipotence ; for example, that as it would be 
unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate the past — 
for instance, the Seven Years’ War, or the French Revolution — 
though any one who believed in Him would acknowledge Him to 
be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to 
expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. 
Then, after looking at me for a moment stedfastly, and taking 
another sip, he told me that popes had frequently done impossi- 
bilities ; for example. Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew ; 
for, not liking particularly any of his real nephews, he had created 
the said Camillo Astalli his nephew ; asking me, with a he ! he ! 
“ What but omnipotence could make a young man nephew to a 
person to whom he was not in the slightest degree related? ” On 
my observing that of course no one believed that the young fellow 


8 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


was really the Pope’s nephew, though the Pope might have 
adopted him as such, the man in black replied, “ that the reality 
of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli had hitherto never become a 
point of faith ; let, however, the present Pope, or any other Pope, 
proclaim that it is necessary to believe in the reality of the 
nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether the faithful would 
not believe in it. Who can doubt that,” he added, “seeing that 
they believe in the reality of the five propositions of Jansenius? 
The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, induced a pope to 
declare that such and such damnable opinions, which they called 
five propositions, were to be found in a book written by Jansen, 
though, in reality, no such propositions were to be found there ; 
whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a 
point of faith to the faithful. Do you then think,” he demanded, 
“ that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called 
upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five 
propositions of Jansenius?” “Surely, then,” said I, “the 
faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons ! ” Whereupon the 
man in black exclaimed : “ What ! a Protestant, and an infringer 
of the rights of faith ! Here’s a fellow who would feel himself 
insulted if any one were to ask him how he could believe in the 
miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow 
the five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called 
upon, to swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo 
Astalli.” 

I was about to speak, when I was interrupted by the arrival 
of Belle. After unharnessing her donkey, and adjusting her person 
a little, she came and sat down by us. In the meantime I had 
helped my companion to some more Hollands and water, and had 
plunged with him into yet deeper discourse. 


CHAPTER III. 


Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the 
truth with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he 
should be delighted to give me all the information in his power ; 
that he had come to the dingle, not so much for the sake of the 
good cheer which I was in the habit of giving him, as in the hope 
of inducing me to enlist under the banners of Rome, and to 
fight in her cause ; and that he had no doubt that, by speaking 
out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning me over. 

He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless 
ages had proved the necessity of religion ; the necessity, he would 
admit, was only for simpletons ; but as nine-tenths of the dwellers 
upon this earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible 
people to run counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was 
their wisest course to encourage them in it, always provided that, 
by so doing, sensible people could derive advantage ; that the 
truly sensible people of this world were the priests, who, without 
caring a straw for religion for its own sake, made use of it as a 
cord by which to draw the simpletons after them ; that there were 
many religions in this world, all of which had been turned to 
excellent account by the priesthood ; but that the one the best 
adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, which, he 
said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated to endure. 
On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish religion 
was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt that 
the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say 
nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour, 
he said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between 
me and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and 
the old Indian system were, in reality, one and the same. 

“ You told me that you intended to be frank,” said I ; “but, 
however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild.” 

“ We priests of Rome,” said the man in black, “ even those 
amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about 
Church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. 
Those of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home 

( 9 ) 


10 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


from distant missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things 
relating to our dear mother ; for example, our first missionaries to 
the East were not slow in discovering and telling to their brethren 
that our religion and the great Indian one were identical, no 
more difference between them than between Ram and Rome. 
Priests, convents, beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, 
all the same, not forgetting anchorites and vermin, he ! he ! The 
Pope they found under the title of the grand lama, a sucking child 
surrounded by an immense number of priests. Our good brethren, 
some two hundred years ago, had a hearty laugh, which their 
successors have often re-echoed ; they said that helpless suckling 
and its priests put them so much in mind of their own old man, 
surrounded by his cardinals, he ! he ! Old age is second child- 
hood.” 

“ Did they find Christ ? ” said I. 

“ They found him too,” said the man in black, “ that is, they 
saw his image ; he is considered in India as a pure kind of being, 
and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the back- 
ground, even as he is here.” 

“ All this is very mysterious to me,” said I. 

“ Very likely,” said the man in black ; “ but of this I am 
tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern 
Rome had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion 
from the East.” 

“ But how ? ” I demanded. 

“ It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of 
nations,” said the man in black. “ A brother of the Propaganda, 
a very learned man, once told me — I do not mean Mezzofanti, 
who has not five ideas — this brother once told me that all we of 
the Old World, from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, 
and were originally of the same language, and ” 

“ All of one religion,” I put in. 

“All of one religion,” said the man in black; “and now 
follow different modifications of the same religion.” 

“We Christians are not image-worshippers,” said I. 

“You heretics are not, you mean,” said the man in black; 
“ but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though 
others may rise up after you ; the true religion is image-worship ; 
people may strive against it, but they will only work themselves 
to an oil ; how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoc- 
last, what was his name, Leon the Isaurian ? Did not his image- 
breaking cost him Italy, the fairest province of his empire, and 
did not ten fresh images start up at home for every one which he 


WORSHIP OF IMAGES. 


II 


1825-] 


demolished ? Oh ! you little know the craving which the soul 
sometimes feels after a good bodily image.” 

“ I have indeed no conception of it,” said I ; “I have an 
abhorrence ot idolatry — the idea of bowing before a graven 
figure 1 ” 

“ The idea, indeed ! ” said Belle, who had now joined us. 

“ Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare? ” said the 
man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle. 

“I don’t remember that I ever did,” said I; “but even 
suppose I did ? ” 

“ Suppose you did,” said the man in black ; “ shame on you, 
Mr. Hater of Idolatry ; why, the very supposition brings you to 
the ground ; you must make figures of Shakespeare, must you ? 
then why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio, or of a greater personage 
still ! I know what you are going to say,” he cried, interrupting 
me, as I was about to speak. “You don’t make his image in 
order to pay it divine honours, but only to look at it, and think 
of Shakespeare ; but this looking at a thing in order to think of 
a person is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespeare’s works are 
not sufficient for you ; no more are the Bible or the legend of 
Saint Anthony or Saint Ignacio for us, that is for those of us who 
believe in them ; I tell you, Zingaro, that no religion can exist 
long which rejects a good bodily image.” 

“Do you think,” said I, “that Shakespeare’s works would 
not exist without his image?” 

“ I believe,” said the man in black, “ that Shakespeare’s image 
is looked at more tiian his works, and will be looked at, and 
perhaps adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that 
they have not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of 
them.” 

“But I can’t imagine,” said I, “how you will put aside the 
authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, 
should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of 
the practice; what higher authority can you have than that of 
Moses?” 

“ The practice of the great majority of the human race,” said 
the man in black, “and the recurrence to image- worship where 
image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is 
considered by the Church as no better than a heretic, and though, 
for particular reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, 
the adoption was merely a sham one, as it never paid the slightest 
attention to them ? No, no, the Church was never led by Moses, 
nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine it has equally 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


U 


[1825. 


nullified — I allude to Krishna in his second avatar ; the Church, 
it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives him 
the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. 
Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to 
the French Protestant Jean Anthoine Guerin, who had asked 
him whether it was easier for Christ to have been mistaken in His 
Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his decrees? ” 

“ I never heard their names before,” said I. 

“The answer was pat,” said the man in black, “though he 
who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very 
ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. ‘Christ 
might err as a man,’ said he, ‘ but the Pope can never err, being 
God.’ The whole story is related in the JSipotismo” 

“ I wonder you should ever have troubled yourself with Christ 
at all,” said I. 

“What was to be done?” said the man in black; “the 
power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power 
of a mighty wind; it was said to have come from Judea, and 
from Judea it probably came when it first began to agitate minds 
in these parts ; but it seems to have been known in the remote 
East, more or less, for thousands of years previously. It filled 
people’s minds with madness ; it was followed by books which 
were never much regarded, as they contained little of insanity ; 
but the name ! what fury that breathed into people ! the books 
were about peace and gentleness, but the name was the most 
horrible of war-cries — those who wished to uphold old names at 
first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were feeble, and they 
had no good war-cry ; what was Mars as a war-cry compared 
with the name of ... ? It was said that they persecuted 
terribly, but who said so ? The Christians. The Christians 
could have given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and 
eventually did so. None but Christians have ever been good 
persecutors ; well, the old religion succumbed, Christianity pre- 
vailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail over the gentle.” 

“I thought,” said I, “you stated a little time ago that the 
Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?” 

“ In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury 
and love of persecution which it inspired,” said the man in black. 
“ A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna ; it absolutely 
maddened people’s minds, and the people would call themselves 
his children ; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will 
belong to Krishna, and they did belong to Krishna ; that is in 
name, but in nothing else ; for who ever cared for Krishna in the 


1825.] 


KRISHNA ET CHRISTUS. 


13 


Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to 
him, or put them in practice ? ” 

“Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to 
practise what they enjoin as much as possible.” 

“ But you reject his image,” said the man in black ; “ better 
reject his words than his image : no religion can exist long which 
rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of 
High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point ; they have 
their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; 
they have likewise a high priest, whom they call ” 

“ Mumbo Jumbo,” said I ; “I know all about him already.” 

“ How came you to know anything about him ? ” said the 
man in black, with a look of some surprise. 

“ Some of us poor Protestant tinkers,” said I, “ though we 
live in dingles, are also acquainted with a thing or two.” 

“ I really believe you are,” said the man in black, staring at 
me; “but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate 
to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once 
met at Rome.” 

“ It would be quite unnecessary,” said I ; “I would much 
sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image.” 

“ Spoken like a true heretic,” said the man in black ; “one of 
the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for 
what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily 
image ! ” 

“I believe you occasionally quote his words?” said I. 

“ He ! he ! ” said the man in black ; “ occasionally.” 

“For example,” said I, “upon this rock I will found my 
Church.” 

“ He ! he ! ” said the man in black ; “ you must really become 
one of us.” 

“ Yet you must have had some difflculty in getting the rock to 
Rome?” 

“None whatever,” said the man in black; “faith can remove 
mountains, to say nothing of rocks — ho ! ho ! ” 

“ But I cannot imagine,” said I, “ what advantage you could 
derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the 
Saviour talks about eating His body.” 

“ I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about 
the matter at all,” said the man in black; “but when you talk 
about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, 
Mr. Tinker ; when He whom you call the Saviour gave His 
followers the sop, and bade them eat it, telling them it was His 


H 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


body, He delicately alluded to what it was incumbent upon them 
to do after His death, namely, to eat His body.” 

“You do not mean to say that He intended they should 
actually eat His body?” 

“ Then you suppose ignorantly,” said the man in black ; 
“ eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, 
practised by the heirs and legatees of people who left property ; 
and this custom is alluded to in the text.” 

“ But what has the New Testament to do with heathen 
customs,” said I, “except to destroy them?” 

“ More than you suppose,” said the man in black. “ We 
priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much 
better what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and 
their theologians, not forgetting their Tinkers ; though I confess 
some of the latter have occasionally surprised us — for example, 
Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded with allusions to 
heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan sorcery. 
Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you, who pretend 
to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen.” 

I made no answer. 

“We of Rome,” said the man in black, “know two or 
three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant ; for ex- 
ample, there are those amongst us — those, too, who do not 
pretend to 'be philologists — who know what Amen is, and more- 
over, how we got it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of 
ancient Rome ; and they got the word from their ancestors of 
the East, the priests of Buddh and Brahma.” 

“ And what is the meaning of the word ? ” I demanded. 

“Amen,” said the man in black, “is a modification of the 
old Hindoo formula, Omani bafsikhom, by the almost ceaseless 
repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the 
rest or state of forgetfulness of Buddh or Brahma ; a foolish 
practice you will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are 
continually sticking Amen to the end of your prayers, little 
knowing when you do so, that you are consigning yourselves to 
the repose of Buddh ! Oh, what hearty laughs our missionaries 
have had when comparing the eternally-sounding Eastern gib- 
berish of Omani batsikhom, Omani batsikhom, and the Ave 
Maria and Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees.” 

“ I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of 
your superstitious devotees,” said I ; “I dare say that they use 
them nonsensically enough, but in putting Amen to the end of a 
prayer, we merely intend to express, ‘So'let it be 


1825.] 


BELLISSIMA BIONDINA^ 


15 


“ It means nothing of the kind,” said the man in black ; “ and 
the Hindoos might just as well put your national oath at the end 
of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand 
years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it 
remembered by dim tradition without being understood. How 
strange if, after the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindoos 
should damn themselves to the blindness so dear to their present 
masters, even as their masters at present consign themselves to 
the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindoos ; but my glass has been 
empty for a considerable time ; perhaps, BelHsshna JBiondina,'* 
said he, addressing Belle, “you will deign to replenish it?” 

“I shall do no such thing,” .said Belle, “you have drunk 
quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the 
truth, I wish you would leave us alone.” 

“Shame on you. Belle,” said I, “consider the obligations of 
hospitality.” 

“ I am sick of that word,” said Belle, “you are so frequently 
misusing it ; were this place not Mumpers’ Dingle, and conse- 
quently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him out 
of it.” 

“Pray be quiet. Belle,” said I. “You had better help your- 
self,” said I, addressing myself to the man in black, “ the lady is 
angry with you.” 

“lam sorry for it,” said the man in black ; “if she is angry 
with me, I am not so with her, and shall be always proud to wait 
upon her ; in the meantime, I will wait upon myself.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


The man in black having helped himself to some more of his 
favourite beverage, and tasted it, I thus addressed him : “ The 
evening is getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady,” 
pointing to Belle, “ is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to 
take cosily and comfortably with me in the dingle : the place, it is 
true, is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless as we are located 
here by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must 
take the liberty of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone, 
as soon as you have said what you have to say, and have finished 
the glass of refreshment at present in your hand. I think you 
said some time ago that one of your motives for coming hither 
was to induce me to enlist under the banner of Rome. I wish to 
know whether that was really the case? ” 

“ Decidedly so,” said the man in black ; “ I come here princi- 
pally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which I 
have no doubt you could do us excellent service.” 

“Would you enlist my companion as well? ” I demanded. 

“ We should be only too proud to have her among us, whether 
she comes with you or alone,” said the man in black, with a 
polite bow to Belle. 

“ Before we give you an answer,” I replied, “ I would fain 
know more about you ; perhaps you will declare your name ? ” 

“That I will never do,” said the man in black; “ no one in 
England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even in a 
dingle ; as for the rest, Sono un Prete Cattolico Appostolico — that 
is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly 
means a great deal.” 

“ We will now proceed to business,” said I. “ You must be 
aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested 
people.” 

“ And with considerable justice,” said the man in black, drink- 
ing. “Well, you are a person of acute perception, and I will 
presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest 
to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy 
circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but to the 

(i6) 


1825.] 


COMING TO BUSINESS. 


17 


world ; but should you enlist with us, I could find you an 
occupation not only agreeable, but one in which your talents 
W'ould have free scope. I would introduce you in the various 
grand houses here in England, to which I have myself admission, 
as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who by dint 
of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. I 
tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, 
nay, a God of you ; they are fools enough for anything. There 
is one person in particular with whom I should wish to make you 
acquainted, in the hope that you would be able to help me to 
perform good service to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, 
of some learning, residing in an old hall, near the great western 
seaport, and is one of the very few amongst the English Catholics 
possessing a grain of sense. I think you could help us to govern 
him, for he is not unfrequently disposed to be restive, asks us 
strange questions — occasionally threatens us with his crutch ; and 
behaves so that we are often afraid that we shall lose him, or, 
rather, his property, which he has bequeathed to us, and which is 
enormous. I am sure that you could help us to deal with him ; 
sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, and 
perhaps occasionally with your fists.” 

“And in what manner would you provide for my companion 
said I. 

“We would place her at once,” said the man in black, “in 
the house of two highly respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbour- 
hood, where she would be treated with every care and considera- 
tion till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular 
manner ; we would then remove her to a female monastic 
establishment, where, after undergoing a year’s probation, during 
which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplish- 
ment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily 
follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital 
lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would 
probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion — to say 
nothing of her height — being a curiosity in the south. With a 
little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputa- 
tion for sanctity ; and who knows but after her death she might 
become a glorified saint — he ! he ! Sister Maria Theresa, for that 
is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria 
Theresa — glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of 
drinking to your health,” and the man in black drank. 

“Well, Belle,” said I, “what have you to say to the gentle- 
man’s proposal ? ” 


2 


i8 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against 
his mouth.” 

“You have heard the lady’s answer,” said I. 

“I have,” said the man in black, “and shall not press the 
matter. I can’t help, however, repeating that she would make a 
capital lady abbess ; she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant 
her ; no easy matter ! Break the glass against my mouth — he ! he ! 
How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns’ heads 
occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan, 
should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of 
a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray 
retain your seat,” said he, observing that Belle had started up ; 
“I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an 
abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, 
and to co-operate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and 
can join you both in an instant, connubio stabili^ as I suppose the 
knot has not been tied already.” 

“ Hold your mumping gibberish,” said Belle, “ and leave the 
dingle this moment, for though ’t is free to every one, you have 
no right to insult me in it.” 

“Pray be pacified,” said I to Belle, getting up, and placing 
myself between her and the man in black; “he will presently 
leave, take my word for it — there, sit down again,” said I, as I 
led her to her seat ; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in 
black : “ I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible ”. 

“ I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first,” said 
he. 

“ Well, then, here you shall have it : I will not entertain your 
proposal ; I detest your schemes : they are both wicked and 
foolish.” 

“ Wicked,” said the man in black, “ have they not — he ! he ! — 
the furtherance of religion in view ? ” 

“A religion,” said I, “in which you yourself do not believe, 
and which you contemn.” 

“Whether I believe in it or not,” said the man in black, “ it 
is adapted for the generality of the human race ; so I will forward 
it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in 
these regions, but it is springing up again owing to circumstances. 
Radicalism is a good friend to us ; all the Liberals laud up our 
system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our 
system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. 
Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a 
baronet who presided over the first Radical meeting ever held in 


1825.] 


THE HELPING HAND. 


19 


England — he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the 
hope of mortifying his own Church — but he is now — ho ! ho ! — a 
real Catholic devotee — quite afraid of my threats ; I make him 
frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us 
good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism 
chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two 
may be found amongst the Radicals, and perhaps as many lords — 
fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownish- 
ness, or something they have done — it incontestably flourishes 
best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is 
a great friend to us ; this love is chiefly confined to the middle 
and upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them ; 
others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a za?narra^ 
stick a cigar in their mouth, and say, c—jo. Others would 
pass for Germans ; he ! he ! the idea of any one wishing to pass 
for a German ! but what has done us more service than anything 
else in these regions — I mean amidst the middle classes — has been 
the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have 
read the novels, have become Jacobites ; and, because all the 
Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, 
or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presby- 
terians, since they have read the novels, are become all but 
Papists ; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. 
There’s a trumpery bit of a half-papist sect, called the Scotch 
Episcopalian, Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for 
upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully 
into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long- 
haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as 
Montrose and Dundee ; and to this the Presbyterians are going 
over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or 
denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of — 
ho ! ho ! ho ! — Scottish Cavaliers ! ! ! I heard them myself re- 
peating snatches of Jacobite ditties about ‘Bonnie Dundee,’ and: — 

‘ Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can, 

And saddle my horse, and call up my man.’ 

There’s stufl* for you ! Not that I object to the first part of the 
ditty. It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, ‘ Come, 
fill up my cup ! ’ more especially if he’s drinking at another 
person’s expense — all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free 
cost : but ‘ Saddle his horse ! ! ! ’ — for what purpose, I would 
ask ? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride 
him ? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride ? ” 


20 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your 
veins,” said I, “ otherwise you would never have uttered that 
last sentence.” 

“ Don’t be too sure of that,” said the man in black ; “ you 
know little of Popery if ‘you imagine that it cannot extinguish 
love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist 
— and who more thorough-going than myself ? — cares nothing 
for his country ; and why should he ? he belongs to a system, 
and not to a country.” 

“One thing,” said I, “connected with you, I cannot under- 
stand ; you call yourself a thorough -going Papist, yet are con- 
tinually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and 
turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination 
to embrace it.” 

“ Rome is a very sensible old body,” said the man in black, 
“ and little cares what her children say, provided they do her 
bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no 
servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their 
masters at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be 
angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called 
her puta all the time they were cutting the throats of the 
Netherlanders. Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the 
latitude of renouncing her, and calling her puta in the market- 
place, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful 
priests occasionally calling her puta in the dingle.” 

. “ But,” said I, “ suppose some one were to tell the world 
some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the 
dingle ? ” 

“ He would have the fate of Cassandra,” said the man in 
black j “no one would believe him — yes, the priests would: but 
they would make no sign of belief. They believe in the Alcoran 
des Cordeliers — that is, those who have read it; but they make 
no sign.” 

“A pretty system,” said I, “which extinguishes love of 
country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its 
ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing 
but mischief.” 

“The systei^i,” said the man in black, “ is a grand one, with 
unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, and 
you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst 
Protestantism is supine. A pretty Church, indeed, the Pro- 
testant ! Why, it can’t even work a miracle.” 

“ Can your Church work miracles ? ” I demanded. 


1825.] 


MIRACLES. 


21 


“ That was the very question,” said the man in black, “ which 
the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had 
been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. ‘We 
don’t pretend to work miracles ; do you ? ’ ‘ Oh ! dear me, yes,’ 

said Austin ; ‘we find no difficulty in the matter. We can raise 
the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you, I 
will give ’sight to the blind. Here is this blind Saxon, whom you 
cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in 
order to show the difference between the true and the false 
Church;’ and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief 
and a little hot water, he opened the^ eyes of the barbarian. So 
we manage matters ! A pretty Church, that old British Church, 
which could not work miracles — quite as helpless as the modern 
one. The fools ! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them ? 
— and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, 
that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?” 

“ It’s a pity,” said I, “ that the British clergy at that interview 
with Austin did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask 
the monk to operate upon him.” 

“Clearly,” said the man in black; “that’s what they ought 
to have done; but they were fools without a single resource.” 
Here he took a sip at his glass. 

“ But they did not believe in the miracle? ” said I. 

“And what did there not believing avail them?” said the 
man in black. “Austin remained master of the field, and they 
went away holding their heads down, and muttering to them- 
selves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin’s 
opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of 
the British clergy ! I wonder it has not been painted ! — he ! he ! ” 

“ I suppose your Church still performs miracles occasionally ! ” 
said I. 

“ It does,” said the man in black. “ The Rev. has lately 

been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had 
got possession of people ; he has been eminently successful. In 
two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of 
the people possessed — he ! he ! Oh ! there is so much energy 
in our system ; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is 
supine.” 

“You must not imagine,” said I, “that all Protestants are 
supine ; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. 
They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate 
God’s Word. I remember only a few months ago, having 
occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, the object of 


22 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of 
that establishment could have no self-interested views ; for I was 
supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small 
as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the 
vendors.” 

The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. “ I know 
the people to whom you allude,” said he; “indeed, unknown to 
them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their 
ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this 
kingdom who have caused our Church so much trouble and 
uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any ; 
for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, 
their folly and their vanity, they are doing us anything but 
mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we 
would gladly see burnt ; they are, with the most untiring per- 
severance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations of the 
holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, 
and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that 
hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, 
to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for 
whom we entertain a particular aversion ; a big, burly parson, 
with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a 
sledge-hammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his 
eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at 
all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure 
as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I 
was, I know not ; but I did not like his look at all, and do not 
intend to go again.” 

“ Well, then,” said I, “ you confess that you have redoubtable 
enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst 
the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the 
plethoric and Platitude schools ? ” 

“ It is but too true,” said the man in black ; “ and if the rest 
of your Church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all 
hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able 
to say that such folks are not numerous ; there are, moreover, 
causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. 
Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, 
puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from 
Platitude professors ; and this nonsense they retail at home, 
where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters 
scream — I beg their pardons — warble about Scotland’s Montrose, 
and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt 


LATITUDE. 


23 


1825.] 


that their papas’ zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book 
as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished. Old 
Rome will win, so you had better join her.” 

And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass. 

“Never,” said I, “ will I become the slave of Rome.” 

“ She will allow you latitude,” said the man in black ; “ do 
but serve her, and she will allow you to call her puia at a 
decent time and place, her popes occasionally call her puta. 
A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and 
rush out into the corridor, and call out puta three times in a 
voice which pierced the Vatican ; that pope was ” 

“ Alexander the Sixth, I dare say,” said I ; “ the greatest 
monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the 
popish system ever had — so his conscience was not always still. 
I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.” 

“ I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope,” 
said the man in black ; “ it is true he brought the word, which is 
Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very 
fond of calling the Church by that name, and other popes have 
taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it, if you belong to 
her.” 

“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging to her, or 
asking her permission.” 

She will allow you to treat her as such, if you belong to her,” 
said the man in black ; “ there is a chapel in Rome, where there 
is a wondrously fair statue — the son of a cardinal — I mean his 

nephew — once Well, she did not cut off his head, but 

slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go.” 

“ I have read all about that in Keysler's Travels^'" said I ; 
“ do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, 
unless to seize her nose.” 

“ She is fond of lucre,” said the man in black ; “ but does 
not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite,” and he 
took out a very handsome gold repeater. 

“ Are you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the 
eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle ? ” 

“ Not before the eyes of one like you,” said the man in black. 

“ It is getting late,” said I ; “ I care not for perquisites.” 

“ So you will not join us?” said the man in black. 

“You have had my answer,” said I. 

“ If I belong to Rome,” said the man in black, “why should 
not you ? ” 

“I may be a poor tinker,” said I, “but I may never have 


24 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable of 
the fox who had lost his tail ? ” 

The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering 
himself, he said : “ Well, we can do without you, we are sure of 
winning 

“ It is not the part of wise people,” said I, “to make sure of 
the battle before it is fought : there’s the landlord of the public- 
house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the cocks 
lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt.” 

“ People very different from the landlord,” said the man in 
black, “both in intellect and station, think we shall surely win ; 
there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our 
success.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ I will set the landlord aside, and will adduce 
one who was in every point a very different person from the land- 
lord, both in understanding and station ; he was very fond of 
laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. 
His last and darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding 
that by his calculations he had persuaded himself that there was 
no possibility of its failing — the person that I allude to was old 
Fraser ” 

“ Who? ” said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his 
glass fall. 

“ Old Fraser of Lovat,” said I ; “ the prince of all conspirators 
and machinators ; he made sure of placing the Pretender on the 
throne of these realms. ‘ I can bring into the field so many 
men,’ said he ; ‘ my son-in-law, Cluny, so many, and likewise my 
cousin, and my good friend ; ’ then speaking of those on whom 
the Government reckoned for support, he would say : ‘ So and so 
are lukewarm, this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us, 
the clergy are anything but hostile to us, and as for the soldiers 
and sailors, half are disaffected to King George, and the rest 
cowards Yet when things came to a trial, this person whom 
he had calculated upon to join the Pretender did not stir from 
his home, another joined the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards 
turned out heroes, and those whom he thought heroes ran away 
like lusty fellows at Culloden ; in a word, he found himself utterly 
mistaken, and in nothing more than in himself ; he thought he was 
a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old fox ; he 
got up a hollow tree, didn’t he, just like a fox ? 

Uopere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe.^* ^ 

1 Cp. V Inferno, xxyii., 25. 


1825 .] 


FRASER OF LOVAT. 


25 


The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, and at 
length answered in rather a faltering voice : “I was not prepared 
for this ; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of 
things which I should never have expected any person of your 
appearance to be acquainted with, but that you should be aware 
of my name is a circumstance utterly incomprehensible to me. 
I had imagined that no person in England was acquainted with 
it ; indeed, I don’t see how any person should be, I have revealed 
it to no one, not being particularly proud of it. Yes, I acknow- 
ledge that my name is Fraser, and that I am of the blood of that 
family or clan, of which the rector of our college once said, that 
he was firmly of opinion that every individual member was either 
rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, oime, Fraser blood. 

My parents, at an early age, took me to , where they shortly 

died, not, however, before they had placed me in the service of a 
cardinal, with whom I continued some years, and who, when 
he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, in the left- 
hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of Sir John 
D ; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost what- 

ever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. 
Let me not, however, forget two points, I am a Fraser, it is 
true, but not a Flannagan ; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, 
but not of Ireland ; I was bred up at the English house, and 

there is at a house for the education of bog-trotters ; I 

was not bred up at that ; beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet 
lower ; whatever my blood may be, it is at least not Irish ; what- 
ever my education may have been, I was not bred at the Irish 
seminary — on those accounts I am thankful — yes, J>er Dio ! I am 
thankful. After some years at college — but why should I tell 
you my history? you know it already perfectly well, probably 
much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest, labour- 
ing in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old, save and 
except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are 
changed. As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome — I must ; 
no hay remedio, as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to 
further her holy plans — he ! he ! — but I confess I begin to doubt 
of their being successful here — you put me out ; old Fraser of 
Lovat ! I have heard my father talk of him ; he had a gold- 
headed cane, with which he once knocked my grandfather down 
— he was an astute one, but, as you say, mistaken, particularly in 
himself. I have read his life by Arbuthnot, it is in the library of 
our college. Farewell ! I shall come no more to this dingle — to 
com^ woiild b^ of no utility ; I shall go and labour elsewhere, 


26 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


though how you came to know my name, is a fact quite 

inexplicable — farewell ! to you both.” 

He then arose, and without further salutation departed from 
the dingle, in which I never saw him again. “ How, in the name 
of wonder, came you to know that man’s name ? ” said Belle, after 
he had been gone some time. 

“ I, Belle ? I knew nothing of the fellow’s name, I assure you.” 

“ But you mentioned his name.” 

“If I did, it was merely casually, by way of illustration. I 
was saying how frequently cunning people were mistaken in their 
calculations, and I adduced the case of old Fraser of Lovat, as 
one in point ; I brought forward his name, because I was well 
acquainted with his history, from having compiled and inserted it 
in a wonderful work, which I edited some months ago, entitled 
Newgate Lives and Trials^ but without the slightest idea that it 
was the name of him who was sitting with us ; he, however, 
thought that I was aware of his name. Belle ! Belle ! for a long 
time I doubted the truth of Scripture, owing to certain conceited 
discourses which I had heard from certain conceited individuals, 
but now I begin to believe firmly ; what wonderful texts there 
are in Scripture, Belle ! ‘ The wicked trembleth where — 
where ’ ” 

“ ‘ They were afraid where no fear was ; thou hast put them to 
confusion, because God hath despised them,’” said Belle; “I 
have frequently read it before the clergyman in the great house of 
Long Melford. But if you did not know the man’s name, why 
let him go away supposing that you did ? ” 

“ Oh, if he was fool enough to make such a mistake, I was 
not going to undeceive him — no, no ! Let the enemies of old 
England make the most of all their blunders and mistakes, they 
will have no help from me ; but enough of the fellow. Belle ; let 
us now have tea, and after that ” 

“ No Armenian,” said Belle ; “ but I want to ask a question : 
pray are all people of that man’s name either rogues or fools ? ” 

“ It is impossible for me to say, Belle, this person being the 
only one of the name I have ever personally known. I suppose 
there are good and bad, clever and foolish, amongst them, as 
amongst all large bodies of people ; however, after the tribe had 
been governed for upwards of thirty years by such a person as 
old Fraser, it were no wonder if the greater part had become 
either rogues or fools : he was a ruthless tyrant. Belle, over his 
own people, and by his cruelty and rapaciousness must either 
have stunned them into an apathy approaching to idiotcy, or 


THE HOPELESS TASK. 


27 


1825.] 


made them artful knaves in their own defence. The qualities 
of parents are generally transmitted to their descendants — the 
progeny of trained pointers are almost sure to point, even with- 
out being taught : if, therefore, all Frasers are either rogues or 
fools, as this person seems to insinuate, it is little to be wondered 
at, their parents or grandparents having been in the training- 
school of old Fraser ! But enough of the old tyrant 'and his 
slaves. Belle, prepare tea this moment, or dread my anger. I 
have not a gold-headed cane like old Fraser of Lovat, but I have, 
what some people would dread much more, an Armenian rune- 
stick.” 


CHAPTER V. 


On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I 
heard the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming : “ Sleepest thou, 
or wakest thou ?” “I was never more awake in my life,” said I, 
going out. “What is the matter?” “He of the horse-shoe,” 
said she, “Jasper, of whom I have heard you talk, is above there 
on the field with all his people ; I went about a quarter of an 
hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them arriving.” 
“ It is well,” said I ; “ have you any objection to asking him and 
his wife to breakfast ? ” “ You can do as you please,” said she ; 

“ I have cups enough, and have no objection to their company.” 
“We are the first occupiers of the ground,” said I, “and, being 
so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our 
best to practise the duties of hospitality.” “ How fond you are 
of using that word,” said Belle; “ if you wish to invite the man 
and his wife, do so, without more *ado ; remember, however, 
that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the 
whole company.” Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently 
found myself outside the dingle. It was as usual a brilliant 
morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass which covered the 
plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had 
probably been about two hours above the horizon. A rather 
numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the 
ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle. About five 
yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in 
erecting his tent ; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the 
bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the 
purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and 
which is called in the Romanian language “ Kekauviskoe saster”. 
With the sharp end of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in 
the earth, at about twenty inches distant from each other, into 
which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend to- 
wards the top, which constituted no less than the timbers of the 
tent, and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro, and a 
female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. 
Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, 

(28) 


1825.] 


MR. AND MRS. SMITH. 


29 


from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. 
and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about. 

“ Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove 
the sharp end of the bar into the ground ; “ here we are and 
plenty of us — Bute dosta Romany chals.” 

“ I am glad to see you all,” said I, “ and particularly you, 
madam,” said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; “and you 
also, madam,” taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno. 

“Good-day to you, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you look, as 
usual, charmingly, and speak so, too ; you have not forgot your 
manners.” 

“ It is not all gold that glitters,” said Mrs. Chikno. “ How- 
ever, good-morrow to you, young rye.” 

“ I do not see Tawno,” said I, looking around ; “ where is he ? ” 

“Where, indeed!” said Mrs. Chikno; “I don’t know; he 
who countenances him in the roving line can best answer.” 

“He will be here anon,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he has 
merely ridden down a by-road to show a farmer a two-year-old 
colt ; she heard me give him directions, but she can’t be satis- 
fied.” 

“ I can’t, indeed,” said Mrs. Chikno. 

“ And why not, sister? ” 

“ Because I place no confidence in your words, brother ; as I 
said before, you countenances him.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ I know nothing of your private concerns ; I 
am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, 
requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro’s company at 
breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam,” said I, 
addressing Mrs. Chikno. 

“ Is that young female your wife, young man ? ” said Mrs. 
Chikno. 

“ My wife ? ” said I. 

“Yes, young man ; your wife, your lawful certificated wife ? ” 

“ No,” said I ; “ she is not my wife.” 

“Then I will not visit with her,” said Mrs. Chikno; I 
countenance nothing in the roving line.” 

“What do you mean by the roving line? ” I demanded. 

“What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean 
such conduct as is not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies live 
together in dingles, without being certificated, I call such be- 
haviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything 
savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have 
suffered too much by my own certificated husband’s outbreaks in 


30 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of 
countenance.” 

“It is hard that people may not live in dingles together 
without being suspected of doing wrong,” said I. 

“So it is,” said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing; “and, to tell 
you the truth, I am altogether surprised at the illiberality of my 
sister s remarks. I have often heard say, that is in good com- 
pany — and I have kept good company in my time — that suspicion 
is king’s evidence of a narrow and uncultivated mind ; on which 
account I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, 
whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, 
seeing that on his account I once refused a lord ; but ask him 
whether I am suspicious of him, and whether I seeks to keep him 
close tied to my apron-string ; he will tell you nothing of the 
kind ; but that, on the contrary, I always allows him an agree- 
able latitude, permitting him to go where he pleases, and to 
converse with any one to whose manner of speaking he may 
take a fancy. But I have had the advantage of keeping good 
company, and therefore ” 

“Meklis,” said Mrs. Chikno, “pray drop all that, sister; I 
believe I have kept as good company as yourself ; and with 
respect to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who 
keeps company with you, I believe, after all, it was something in 
the roving and uncertificated line.” 

“In whatever line it was,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “the offer 
was a good one. The young duke — for he was not only a lord, 
but a duke too — offered to keep me a fine carriage, and to make 
me his second wife ; for it is true that he had another who was 
old and stout, though mighty rich, and highly good-natured ; so 
much so, indeed, that the young lord assured me that she would 
have no manner of objection to the arrangement ; more especially 
if I would consent to live in the same house with her, being fond 
of young and cheerful society. So you see ” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Chikno, “I see what I before thought, 
that it was altogether in the uncertificated line.” 

“ Mek lis,” said Mrs. Petulengro ; “ I use your own word, 
madam, which is Romany : for my own part, I am not fond of 
using Romany words, unless I can hope to pass them off for 
French, which I cannot in the present company. I heartily wish 
that there was no such language, and do my best to keep it away 
from my children, lest the frequent use of it should altogether 
confirm them in low and vulgar habits. I have four children, 
madam, but ” 


1825.] 


PRELIMINARY REMARKS, 


31 


“ I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check 
me for having none,” said Mrs. Chikno bursting into tears ; “ if I 
have no children, sister, it is no fault of mine, it is — but why do 
I call you sister?” said she angrily; “you are no sister of mine, 
you are a grasni, a regular mare — a pretty sister, indeed, ashamed 
of your own language. I remember well that by your high-flying 
notions you drove your own mother ” 

“We will drop it,” said Mrs. Petulengro ; “ I do not wish to 
raise my voice, and to make myself ridiculous. Young gentle- 
man,” said she, “pray present my compliments to Miss Isopel 
Berners, and inform her that I am very sorry that I cannot accept 
her polite invitation. I am just arrived, and have some slight 
domestic matters to see to — amongst others, to wash my children’s 
faces ; but that in the course of the forenoon, when I have attended 
to what I have to do, and have dressed myself, I hope to do my- 
self the honour of paying her a regular visit ; you will tell her 
that, with my compliments. With respect to my husband, he 
can answer for himself, as I, not being of a jealous disposition, 
never interferes with his matters.” 

“And tell Miss Berners,” said Mr. Petulengro, “that I shall 
be happy to wait upon her in company with my wife as soon as 
we are regularly settled : at present I have much on my hands, 
having not only to pitch my own tent, but this here jealous 
woman’s, whose husband is absent on my business.” 

Thereupon I returned to the dingle, and, without saying any- 
thing about Mrs. Chikno’s observations, communicated to Isopel 
the messages of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro ; Isopel made no other 
reply than by replacing in her coffer two additional cups and 
saucers, which, in expectation of company, she had placed upon 
the board. The kettle was by this time boiling. We sat down, 
and, as we breakfasted, I gave Isopel Berners another lesson in 
the Armenian language. 


CHAPTER VI. 


About midday Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro came to the dingle to pay 
the promised visit. Belle, at the time of their arrival, was in her 
tent, but I was at the fire-place, engaged in hammering part of 
the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off from one of the 
wheels of my vehicle. On. perceiving them I forthwith went to 
receive them. Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, 
with a somewhat smartly cut sporting- coat, the buttons of which 
were half-crowns, and a waistcoat scarlet and black, the buttons 
of which were spaded half-guineas ; his breeches were of a stuff 
half-velveteen, half-corduroy, the cords exceedingly broad. He 
had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the bottom, and upon his 
feet were highlows. Under his left arm was a long black whale- 
bone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense silver knob. 
Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat of the kind 
which the Spaniards call calanh, so much in favour with the bravos 
of Seville and Madrid. Now, when I have added that Mrx 
Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I think I have 
described his array. Mrs. Petulengro — I beg pardon for not 
having spoken of her first — was also arrayed very much in the 
Roman fashion. Her hair, which was exceedingly black and 
lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head. In her ears 
were rings, with long drops of gold. Round her neck was a 
string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat 
tarnished, however, and apparently of considerable antiquity. 
“Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “here we are, 
come to see you — wizard and witch, witch and wizard : — 

‘ There’s a chovahanee, and a chovahano. 

The nav se len is Petulengro ’ ”. 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you make 
me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties. We are come a 
visiting now, and everything low should be left behind.” 

“True,” said Mr. Petulengro; “why bring what’s low to the 
dingle, which is low enough already?” 

“What, are you a catcher at words?” said I. “I thought 

(32) 


1825.] 


THE RECEPTION. 


33 


that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers 
and village witty bodies.” 

“All fools,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “catch at words, and very 
naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility of 
rational conversation. Catching at words confined to pothouse 
farmers, and village witty bodies ! No, nor to Jasper Petulengro. 
Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call news- 
paper editors, and if you don’t go out and eat grass, as a dog does 
when he is sick, I am no female woman. The young lord whose 
hand I refused when I took up with wise Jasper, once brought 
two of them to my mother’s tan, when hankering after my 
company ; they did nothing but carp at each other’s words, and a 
pretty hand they made of it. Ill-favoured dogs they were ; and 
their attempts at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as 
their countenances.” 

“Well,” said I, “madam, we will drop all catchings and carp- 
ings for the present. Pray take your seat on this stool, whilst I 
go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival.” 

Thereupon ! went to Belle’s habitation, and informed her 
that Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro had paid us a visit of ceremony, 
and were awaiting her at the fire-place. “ Pray go and tell them 
that I am busy,” said Belle, who was engaged with her needle. 
“ I do not feel disposed to take part in any such nonsense.” “ I 
shall do no such thing,” said I ; “and I insist upon your coming 
forthwith, and showing proper courtesy to your visitors. If you 
do not, their feelings will be hurt, and you are aware that I cannot 
bear that people’s feelings should be outraged. Come this 

moment, or ” “Or what ?” said Belle, half smiling. “I 

was about to say something in Armenian,” said I. “ Well,” said 
Belle, laying down her work, “I will come.” “Stay,” said I, 
“ your hair is hanging about your ears, and your dress is in 
disorder ; you had better stay a minute or two to prepare yourself 
to appear before your visitors, who have come in their very best 
attire.” “No,” said Belle, “I will make no alteration in my 
appearance ; you told me to come this moment, and you shall be 
obeyed.” So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we 
drew nigh, Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound 
obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from the stool 
and made a profound courtesy. Belle who had flung her hair 
back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending 
her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her 
large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very 
handsome — but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and 

3 


34 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, 
and hair dark — as dark as could be. Belle, in demeanour calm 
and proud ; the gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agita- 
tion. And then how different were those two in stature ! The 
head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of 
Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle 
with unmixed admiration ; so did her husband. “ Well,” said the 
latter, “ one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on 
earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the 
beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno 
Chikno ; what a pity he did not come down ! ” 

“Tawno Chikno,” said Mrs. Petulengro, flaring up ; “a pretty 
fellow he to stand-up in front of this gentlewoman, a pity he 
didn’t come, quotha ? not at all, the fellow is a sneak, afraid of 
his wife. He stand up against this rawnie ! why, the look she has 
given me would knock the fellow down.” 

“ It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist,” 
said Mr. Petulengro ; “ that is, if the look comes from a woman : 
not that I am disposed to doubt that this female gentlewoman is 
able to knock him down either one way or the other. I have 
heard of her often enough, and have seen her once or twice, 
though not so near as now. Well, ma’am, my wife and I are 
come to pay our respects to you ; we are both glad to find that 
you have left off keeping company with Flaming Bosville, and 
have taken up with my pal ; he is not very handsome, but a 
better ” 

“ I take up with your pal, as you call him ! you had better mind 
what you say,” said Isopel Berners ; “ I take up with nobody.” 

“ I merely mean taking up your quarters with him,” said Mr. 
Petulengro ; “ and I was only about to say a better fellow-lodger 
you cannot have, or a more instructive, especially if you have a 
desire to be inoculated with tongues, as he calls them. I wonder 
whether you and he have had any tongue-work already.” 

“ Have you and your wife anything particular to say ? If you 
have nothing but this kind of conversation I must leave you, as I 
am going to make a journey this afternoon, and should be getting 
ready.” 

“ You must excuse my husband, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro ; 
“he is not overburdened with understanding, and has said but 
one word of sense since he has been here, which was that we 
came to pay our respects to you. We have dressed ourselves in 
our best Roman way, in order to do honour to you ; perhaps you 
do not like it ; if so, I am sorry. I have no French clothes. 


1825.] 


BELLE AND PAKOMOVNA. 


35 


madam ; if I had any, madam, I would have come in them, in 
order to do you more honour.” 

“ I like to see you much better as you are,” said Belle ; “ people 
should keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty.” 

“ I am glad you are pleased to think it so, madam ; it has 
been admired in the great city ; it created what they call a sensa- 
tion, and some of the great ladies, the court ladies, imitated it, 
else I should not appear in it so often as I am accustomed ; for I 
am not very fond of what is Roman, having an imagination that 
what is Roman is ungenteel ; in fact, I once heard the wife of a 
rich citizen say that gypsies were vulgar creatures. I should have 
taken her saying very much to heart, but for her improper pro- 
nunciation ; she could not pronounce her words, madam, which 
we gypsies, as they call us, usually can, so I thought she was no 
very high purchase. You are very beautiful, madam, though you 
are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hang- 
ing down in sad confusion ; allow me to assist you in arranging 
your hair, madam ; I will dress it for you in our fashion ; I would 
fain see how your hair would look in our poor gypsy fashion ; pray 
allow me, madam ? ” and she took Belle by the hand. 

“ I really can do no such thing,” said Belle, withdrawing her 
hand ; “ I thank you for coming to see me, but ” 

“ Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam,” said Mrs. 
Petulengro. “ I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of 
condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you 
doubly so, because you are so fair ; I have a great esteem for 
persons with fair complexions and hair ; I have a less regard for 
people with dark hair and complexions, madam.” 

“ Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?” 
said Mr. Petulengro; “that same lord was fair enough all about 
him.” 

“ People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes 
repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I 
sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I 
might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam, said she, 
again taking Belle by the hand, “ do oblige me by allowing me to 
plait your hair a little ? ” 

“ r have really a good mind to be angry with you,” said Belle, 
giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance. 

“ Do allow her to arrange your hair,” said I ; “ she means no 
harm, and wishes to do you honour ; do oblige her and me too, 
for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her 
fashion.” 


36 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“You hear what the young rye says?” said Mrs. Petulengro. 
“lam sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many 
people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but 
ask them ; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has 
a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted ; he does not 
think small beer of himself, madam ; and all the time I have been 
with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, 
madam, I am sure you will oblige him. My sister Ursula would 
be very willing to oblige him in many things, but he will not ask 
her for anything, except for such a favour as a word, which is a 
poor favour after all. I don’t mean for her word ; perhaps he will 
some day ask you for your word. If so ” 

“ Why, here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, 
catching at a word yourself,” said Mr. Petulengro. 

“ Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro. “ Don’t 
interrupt me in my discourse ; if I caught at a word now, I am 
not in the habit of doing so. I am no conceited body ; no news- 
paper Neddy; no pothouse witty person. I was about to say, 
madam, that if the young rye asks you at any time for your word, 
you will do as you deem convenient ; but I am sure you will 
oblige him by allowing me to braid your hair.” 

“ I shall not do it to oblige him,” said Belle ; “ the young rye, 
as you call him, is nothing to me.” 

“ Well, then, to oblige me,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “do allow 
me to become your poor tire-woman.” 

“ It is great nonsense,” said Belle, reddening ; “ however, as 
you came to see me, and a^k the matter as a particular favour to 
yourself ” 

“Thank you, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, leading Belle 
to the stool; “please to sit down here. Thank you; your hair 
is very beautiful, madam,” she continued, as she proceeded to 
braid Belle’s hair ; “ so is your countenance. Should you ever 
go to the great city, among the grand folks, you would make a 
sensation, madam. I have made one myself, who am dark ; the 
chi she is kauley, which last word signifies black, which I am not, 
though rather dark. There’s no colour like white, madam ; it’s 
so lasting, so genteel. Gentility will carry the day, madam, even 
with the young rye. He will ask words of the black lass, but beg 
the word of the fair.” 

In the meantime Mr. Petulengro and myself entered into 
conversation. “Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?” said I. 
“ Have you heard anything of the great religious movements?” 

“Plenty,” said Mr. Petulengro; “all the religious people, 


1825.] 


the news. 


37 


more especially the Evangelicals — those that go about ^distribut- 
ing tracts — are very angry about the fight between Gentleman 
Cooper and White-headed Bob, which they say ought not to have 
been permitted to take place ; and then they are trying all they 
can to prevent the fight between the lion and the dogs, which 
they say is a disgrace to a Christian country. Now I can’t say 
that I have any quarrel with the religious party and the Evan- 
gelicals ; they are always civil to me and mine, and frequently 
give us tracts, as they call them, which neither I nor mine can 
read ; but I cannot say that I approve of any movements, 
religious or not, which have in aim to put down all life and manly 
sport in this here country.” 

“ Anything else ? ” said I. 

“People are becoming vastly sharp,” said Mr. Petulengro; 
and I am told that all the old-fashioned good-tempered constables 
are going to be set aside, and a paid body of men to be 
established, who are not to permit a tramper or vagabond on the 
roads of England ; and talking of roads, puts me in mind of a 
strange story I heard two nights ago, whilst drinking some beer 
at a public-house, in company with my cousin Sylvester. I had 
asked Tawno to go, but his wife would not let him. Just opposite 
me, smoking their pipes, were a couple of men, something like 
engineers, and they were talking of a wonderful invention which 
was to make a wonderful alteration in England ; inasmuch as it 
would set aside all the old roads, which in a little time would be 
ploughed up, and sowed with corn, and cause all England to be 
laid down with iron roads, on which people would go thundering 
along in vehicles, pushed forward by fire and smoke. Now, 
brother, when I heard this, I did not feel very comfortable ; for 
I thought to myself, what a queer place such a road would be to 
pitch one’s tent upon, and how impossible it would be for one’s 
cattle to find a bite of grass upon it ; and I thought likewise of 
the danger to which one’s family would be exposed of being run 
over and severely scorched by these same flying fiery vehicles ; so 
I made bold to say, that I hoped such an invention would never 
be countenanced, because it was likely to do a great deal of harm. 
Whereupon, one. of the men, giving me a glance, said, without 
taking the pipe out of his mouth, that for his part, he sincerely 
hoped that it would take effect ; and if it did no other good than 
stopping the rambles of gypsies, and other like scamps, it ought 
to be encouraged. Well, brother, feeling myself insulted, I put 
my hand into my pocket, in order to pull out money, intending 
to challenge him to fight for a five-shilling stake, but merely 


38 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


found sixpence, having left all my other money at the tent ; 
which sixpence was just sufficient to pay for the beer which 
Sylvester and myself were drinking, of whom I couldn’t hope to 
borrow anything — ‘ poor as Sylvester ’ being a by-word amongst 
us. So, not being able to back myself, I held my peace, and let 
the.gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning up his nose 
at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying what 
a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use 
of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the 
shoeing of England with iron. And after he had said this, and 
much more of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and 
his companion got up and walked away ; and presently I and 
Sylvester got up and walked to our camp ; and there I lay down 
in my tent by the side of my wife, where I had an ugly dream of 
having camped upon an iron road ; my tent being overturned by 
a flying vehicle ; my wife’s leg injured ; and all my affairs put 
into great confusion.” 

“Now, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “ I have braided your 
hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more 
beautiful, if possible, than before.” Belle now rose, and came 
forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his 
applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was 
improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of 
Mrs. Petulengro’s hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear 
as a gypsy ; she had made her too proud and serious. A more 
proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine — that 
of Theresa of Hungary, for example ; or, better still, that of 
Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, 
who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, 
she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to 
die, to whom Odin had promised victory. 

Belle looked at me for a moment in silence ; then turning to 
Mrs. Petulengro, she said: “You have had your will with me; 
are you satisfied?” “Quite so, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, 
“ and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in 
the glass.” “I have looked in one already,” said Belle, “and 
the glass does not flatter.” “You mean the face of the young 
rye,” said Mrs. Petulengro ; “ never mind him, madam ; the 
young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, 
nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you, that you never 
looked so well before ; and I hope that, from this moment, you 
will wear your hair in this way.” “ And who is to braid it in this 
way?” said Belle, smiling. “I, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro; 


1825.] 


BELLE HERSELF AGAIN. 


39 


“I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be per- 
suaded to join us. Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the 
young rye would do so too.” “ The young rye is nothing to me, 
nor I to him,” said Belle; “we have stayed some time together, 
but our paths will soon be apart. Now, farewell, for I am about 
to lake a journey.” “ And you will go out with your hair as I 
have braided it,” said Mrs. Petulengro ; “if you do, everybody 
will be in love with you.” “No,” said Belle; “hitherto I have 
allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have 
my own way. Come, come,” said she, observing that the gypsy 
was about to speak, “ we have had enough of nonsense ; when- 
ever I leave this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own 
fashion.” “Come, wife,” said Mr. Petulengro, “we will no 
longer intrude upon the rye and rawnie ; there is such a thing as 
being troublesome.” Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife 
took their leave, with many salutations. “ Then you are going?” 
said I, when Belle and I were left alone. “Yes,” said Belle; “I 
am going on a journey ; my affairs compel me.” “ But you will 
return again?” said I. “Yes,” said Belle, “I shall return once 
more.” “ Once more,” said I ; “ what do you mean by once 
more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will you aban- 
don me in this place?” “You were alone here,” said Belle, 
“ before I came, and, I suppose, found it agreeable, or you would 
not have stayed in it.” “Yes,” said I, “that was before I knew 
you ; but having lived with you here, I should be very loth to 
live here without you.” “ Indeed,” said Belle ; I did not know 
that I was of so much consequence to you. Well, the day is 
wearing away — I must go and harness Traveller to the cart.” “ I 
will do that,” said I, “ or anything else you may wish me. Go 
and prepare yourself ; I will see after Traveller and the cart.” 
Belle departed to her tent, and I set about performing the task I 
had undertaken. In about half an hour Belle again made her 
appearance — she was dressed neatly and plainly. Her hair was 
no longer in the Roman fashion, in which Pakomovna had plaited 
it, but was secured by a comb ; she held a bonnet in her hand. 
“ Is there anything else I can do for you ? ” I deihanded. 
“ There are two or three bundles by my tent, which you can put 
into the cart,” said Belle. I put the bundles into the cart, and 
then led Traveller and the cart up the winding path to the mouth 
of the dingle, near which was Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. 
Belle followed. At the top, I delivered the reins into her hands ; 
we looked at each other stedfastly for some time. Belle then 
departed, and I returned to the dingle, where, seating myself on 
my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour in thought. 


CHAPTER VII. 


On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany 
chals of Mr. Petulengro’s party. Throughout the forenoon the 
Romany chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh 
which they cooked v/as swine’s flesh. About two o’clock, the 
chals and chies, dividing themselves into various parties, sat down 
and partook of the fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. 
I dined that day with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, 
Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, and Sylvester and his two children. 
Sylvester, it will be as well to say, was a widower, and had conse- 
quently no one to cook his victuals for him, supposing he had any, 
which was not always the case, Sylvester’s affairs being seldom in a 
prosperous state. He was noted for his bad success in trafficking, 
notwithstanding the many hints which he received from Jasper, 
under whose protection he had placed himself, even as Tawno 
Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard on a 
former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he 
was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the 
Romany tribe. 

All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, 
feeling rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I 
did not, like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner 
entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day 
before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a 
good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle. 
During the dinner a horn filled with ale passed frequently around ; 
I drank of it more than once, and felt inspirited by the draughts. 
The repast concluded, Sylvester and his children departed to their 
tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno and myself, getting up, went 
and lay down under a shady hedge, where Mr. Petulengro, light- 
ing his pipe, began to smoke, and where Tawno presently fell 
asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, when I heard the sound 
of music and song. Piramus was playing on the fiddle, whilst 
Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing in tones 
sharp enough, but of great power, a gipsy song : — 

(40) 


1825.] 

‘^DRABBING THE BAULOJ^ 41 

• 

POISONING THE PORKER. 

By Mrs. Chikno. 

To mande shoon ye Romany chals 

Who besh in the pus about the yag. 

I’ll pen how we drab the baulo. 

I’ll pen how we drab the baulo. 

We jaws to the drab-engro ker, 

Trin hors- worth there of drab we lels. 

And when to the swety back we wels 

We pens we’ll drab the baulo. 

We’ll have a drab at the baulo. 

And then we kairs the drab opre. 

And then we jaws to the farming ker, 

To mang a beti habben, 

A beti poggado habben. 

A rinkeno baulo there we 'dick. 

And then we pens in Romano jib : 

“ Wust lis odoi opre ye chick. 

And the baulo he will lei lis. 

The baulo he will lei lis ”. 

Coliko, coliko saulo we 

Apopli to the farming ker 

Will wel and mang him mullo. 

Will wel and mang his truppo. 

And so we kairs, and so we kairs ; 

The baulo in the rarde mers ; 

We mang him on the saulo. 

And rig to the tan the baulo. 

And then we toves the wendror well 

Till sore the wendror iuziou se. 

Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis. 

Till drab there’s kek adrey lis. 

And then his truppo well we hatch. 

Kin levinor at the kitchema. 

And have a kosko habben, 

A kosko Romano habben. 

The boshom engro kils, he kils. 

The tawnie juva gils, she gils 

A puro Romano gillie. 

Now shoon the Romano gillie. 


Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my 
younger days, for a lady’s album : — 

Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw about the fire, 
and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell how we poison the 
porker. 


42 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


We go to the house of the poison-monger,* where we buy three pennies’ 
worth of bane, and when we return to our people, we say we will poison 
the porker; we will 'try and poison the porker. 

We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house of 
the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals. 

We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, “ Fling the 
bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, the porker 
soon will find it ”. 

Early on the morrow, we will return to the farm-house, and beg the 
dead porker, the body of the dead porker. 

And so we do, even so we do ; the porker dieth during the night ; on 
the morrow we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker. ^ 

And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly clean, 
till there’s no bane within it, not a poison grain within it. 

And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the alehouse, and have' 
a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet. 

The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays ; the little lassie sings, she 
sings an ancient Roman ditty ; now hear the Roman ditty. 


^ SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY. 
By Ursula. 


Penn’d the Romany chi ke laki dye, 

“ Miry dearie dye mi shorn cambri ! ” 

“ And coin kerdo tute cambri. 

Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi ? ” 

“ O miry dye a boro rye, 

A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye, 

Sos kistur pre a pellengo grye, 

’Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri.” 

“ Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny, 

Tu chal from miry tan abri ; 

Had a Romany chal kair’d tute cambri. 
Then I had penn’d ke tute chie. 

But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny 
With gorgikie rat to be cambri.” 


“There’s some kernel in those songs, brother,” said Mr. 
Petulengro, when the songs and music were over. 

“Yes,” said I; “they are certainly very remarkable songs. 
[I translated both long ago for a lady’s album.” 

“ A lady’s what, brother ? ” 

“A lil in which she kept bits of song and poetry to show 
occasionally to young ladies.” 


* The apothecary. 




1825.] 


^‘NECESSITY HAS NO LAW: 


43 


“ You had no right to do that, brother; you had no right to 
let the ladies into the secrets of people who took you up when 
you were little better than half a fool. But what did the lady 
say to them? ” 

“As I have done just now, that they were remarkable songs, 
strongly expressive of the manners and peculiarities of a remark- 
able people.” 

“ Brother, she was a gentlewoman, and I forgive you.”] 

“ I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor 
lately.” . 

“And suppose we have, brother, what then? ” 

“ Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the 
wickedness of it.” 

“ Necessity has no law, brother.” 

“ That is true,” said I ; “ I have always said so, but you are 
not necessitous, and should not drab baulor.” 

“And who told you we had been drabbing baulor? ” 

“ Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet, 
Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally 
thought you might have lately been engaged in such a thing.” 

“ Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common 
sense. It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner 
of pork, and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor ; 
I will now tell you that we have not been doing so. What have 
you to say to that ? ” 

“ That I am very glad of it.” 

“ Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found 
that it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can 
hardly be expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at 
present, we have money and credit ; but necessity has no law. 
Our forefathers occasionally drabbed baulor ; some of our people 
may still do such a thing, but only from compulsion.” 

“ I see,” said I ; “ and at your merry meetings you sing songs 
upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias, their villainous 
actions ; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any 
nation be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry 
of Scotland, the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the 
villainous deeds of the Scotch nation ; cow-stealing, for example, 
which is very little better than drabbing baulor ; whilst the softer 
part is mostly about the slips of its females among the broom, so 
that no upholder of Scotch poetry could censure Ursula’s song 
as indelicate, even if he understood it. What do you think, 
Jasper?” 


44 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1^25. 


“ I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you 
utter a word of common sense ; you were talking of the Scotch, 
brother ; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with 
Romany ? ’ 

“ A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper ! Oh dear, 
but you joke, the thing could never be.” 

“Yes, and at Piramus’s fiddle ; what do you think of a Scotch- 
man turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle? ” 

“A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle ! non- 
sense, Jasper.” 

“ Do you know what I most dislike, brother ? ” 

“ I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper.” 

“ It is not the constable ; it’s a beggar on horseback, brother.” 
“ What do you mean by a beggar on horseback? ” 

“ Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who 
takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week 
ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in 
the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were 
making merry, the girls were dancing, while Piramus was playing 
on the fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he has given 
his own name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated 
amongst our people, and from which I have been told that one 
of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, has taken 
several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great many grand 
people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great house, 
and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of 
Rome, and seemed much pleased ; and when the girls had left 
off dancing, and Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their 
fortunes told ; so I bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune 
when she pleases better than any one else, tell them a fortune, 
and she, being in a good mind, told them a fortune which pleased 
them very much. So, after they had heard their fortunes, one 
of them asked if any of our women could sing ; and I told them 
several could, more particularly Leviathan — you know Leviathan, 
she is not here now, but some miles distant ; she is our best singer, 
Ursula coming next. So the lady said she should like to hear 
Leviathan sing, whereupon Leviathan sang the Gudlo pesham, 
and Piramus played the tune of the same name, which as you 
know, means the honeycomb, the song and the tune being well 
entitled to the name, being wonderfully sweet. Well, everybody 
present seemed mighty well pleased with the song and music, with 
the exception of one person, a carroty-haired Scotch body ; how 
he came there I don’t know, but there he was ; and, coming for- 


1825.] 


THE SCOTCHMAN. 


45 


ward, he began in Scotch as broad as a barn-door to find fault 
with the music and the song, saying, that he had never heard viler 
stuff than either. Well, brother, out of consideration for the civil 
gentry with whom the fellow had come, I held my peace for a long 
time, and in order to get the subject changed, I said to Mikailia 
in Romany, you have told the ladies their fortunes, now tell the 
gentlemen theirs, quick, quick,— pen lende dukkerin. Well, 
brother, the Scotchman, I suppose, thinking I was speaking ill of 
him, fell into a greater passion than before, and catching hold of 
the word dukkerin — ‘ Dukkerin,’ said he, ‘ what’s dukkerin ? ’ 
‘ Dukkerin,’ said I, ‘ is fortune, a man or woman’s destiny ; don’t 
you like the word?’ ‘Word! d’ye ca’ that a word? a bonnie 
word,’ said he. ‘ Perhaps you’ll tell us what it is in Scotch,’ said 
I, ‘ in order that we may improve our language by a Scotch word ; 
a pal of mine has told me that we have taken a great many words 
from foreign lingos.’ ‘Why, then, if that be the case, fellow, I 
will tell you ; it is e’en “spaeing,”’ said he very seriously. ‘Well, 
then,’ said I, ‘ I’ll keep my own word, which is much the prettiest 
— spaeing I spaeing I why, I should be ashamed to make use of 
the word, it sounds so much like a certain other word; ’ and then 
I made a face as if I were unwell. ‘ Perhaps it’s Scotch also for 
that ? ’ ‘ What do ye mean by speaking in that guise to a gentle- 

man ? ’ said he, ‘ you insolent vagabond, without a name or a 
country.’ ‘There you are mistaken,’ said I; ‘my country is 
Egypt, but we ’Gyptians, like you Scotch, are rather fond of 
travelling; and as for name — my name is Jasper Petulengro, 
perhaps you have a better; what is it?’ ‘Sandy Macraw.’ At 
that, brother, the gentlemen burst into a roar of laughter, and all 
the ladies tittered.” 

“You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper.” 

“ Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first ; I am 
the civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody, 
who lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, for- 
sooth ! why, L d A’mighty, what’s Scotch ? He doesn’t like 

our songs ; what are his own ? I understand them as little as he 
mine ; I have heard one or two of them, and pretty rubbish they 
seemed. But the best of the joke is, the fellow’s finding fault with 
Piramus’s fiddle — a chap from the land of bagpipes finding fault 
with Piramus’s fiddle ! Why, I’ll back that fiddle against all the 
bagpipes in Scotland, and Piramus against all the bagpipers ; for 
though Piramus weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman 
of twenty.” 

“ Scotchmen are never so fat as that,” said I, “ unless, indeed, 


46 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


they have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, Jasper, 
what remarkable names your people have ! ” 

“ And what pretty names, brother ; there’s my own for example, 
Jasper ; then there’s Ambrose and Sylvester;^ then there’s Culvato, 
which signifies Claude ; then there’s Piramus — that’s a nice name, 
brother.” 

“ Then there’s your wife’s name, Pakomovna ; then there’s. 
Ursula and Morelia.” 

“ Then, brother, there’s Ercilla.” 

“ Ercilla ! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful ; 
then Leviathan.’’ 

“The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a 
ship, so don’t make a wonder out of her. But there’s Sanpriel 
and Synfye.” 

“Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Cur- 
landa and Orlanda ; wherever did they get those names ? ” 

“Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?” 

“ She knows best, Jasper. I hope ” 

“ Come, no hoping ! She got it from her grandmother, who 
died at the age of 103, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard. She 
got it from her mother, who also died very old, and who could 
give no other account of it than that it had been in the family 
time out of mind.” 

“ Whence could they have got it ? ” 

“ Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A 
gentleman, who had travelled much, once told me that he had 
seen the sister of it about the neck of an Indian queen.” 

“Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; 
your own, for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester ; ^ perhaps you 
got them from the Papists, in the times of Popery ; but where did 
you get such a name as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance ? 
Then some of them appear to be Slavonian ; for example, Mikailia 
and Pakomovna. I don’t know much of Slavonian ; but ” 

“ What is Slavonian, brother?” 

“The family name of certain nations, the principal of which 
is the Russian, and from which the word slave is originally 
derived. You have heard of the Russians, Jasper?” 

“Yes, brother, and seen some. I saw their crallis at the 
time of the peace ; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian.” 

“By-the-bye, Jasper, I’m half-inclined to think that crallis is 
a Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called Voltaire’s 


1 MS. , see Life, i. , 34, n. 


Ibid. 


1825.] 


GYPSY NAMES, 


47 


Zt/e of Charles. How you should have come by such names and 
words is to me incomprehensible.” 

‘'You seem posed, brother.” 

“ I really know very little about you, Jasper.” 

“Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about 
ourselves ; and you know nothing, save what we have told you ; 
and we have now and then told you things about us which are 
not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you,jDrother. You will 
say that was wrong ; perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here 
in a day or two, when we will go to church, where possibly we 
shall hear a sermon on the disastrous consequences of lying.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by 
myself in the solitary dingle ; and then, having set things a little 
to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. I could 
hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, 
“ Come to church, come to church,” as clearly as it was possible 
for church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the 
door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. 
“Well, Jasper,” said I, “are you ready to go to church? for if 
you are, I am ready to accompany you.” “ I am not ready, 
brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ nor is my wife; the church, too, 
to which we shall go is three miles off ; so it is of no use to think 
of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters 
over before we got there ; if, however, you are disposed to go in 
the afternoon, we are your people.” Thereupon I returned to my 
dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, 
which the preacher, Peter Williams, had given me. 

At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and 
was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of 
Mr. Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, 
where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready 
to proceed to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in 
Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which 
they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a 
clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad 
rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed 
in much the same manner as that in which I departed from 
London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clea^, 
having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own 
hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the 
newts and efts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We 
proceeded for upwards of a mile by footpaths through meadows 
and cornfields ; we crossed various stiles ; at last passing over one, 
we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a consider- 
able distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of 

(48) 







1825 .] 


THE GYPSIES AT CHURCH, 


49 


which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time ; before, 
however, we reached the churchyard the bells had ceased their 
melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees of brilliant green 
foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the 
way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the 
church. As we advanced, the sound of singing within the 
church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. 
Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. 

I myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I 
entered, turned round, and with a significant nod, advised me to 
take care how I behaved. The part of the church which we had 
entered was the chancel ; on one side stood a number of venerable 
-old men — probably the neighbouring poor — and on the other a 
number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in 
white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply 
dressed young women were superintending. Every voice seemed 
to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding 
it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the 
sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of 
which are those which burst on our ears as we entered : — 

Every eye shall now behold Him, 

Robed in dreadful majesty ; 

Those who set at nought and sold Him, 

Pierced and nailed Him to the tree, 

Deeply wailing, 

• Shall the true Messiah see. 

Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel 
and along the aisle ; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly 
hear as we passed many a voice whispering : “ Here come the 
gypsies ! here come the gypsies ! ” I felt rather embarrassed, 
with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit ; none 
of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost 
entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons and daughters, opened 
a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel 
not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the 
greatest nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which 
stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle 
of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton dressed 
in long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand. This function- 
ary motioned towards the lower end of the church, where were 
certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys. Mrs. 
Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course 

4 


50 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened 
and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, 
and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means to approve 
of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door, laid his finger 
on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must 
quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed my 
eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough ; 
the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his 
head, closed the door — in a moment more the music ceased. I 
took up a prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl’s coronet. 
The clergyman uttered, “I will arise, and go to my father”. 
England’s sublime liturgy had commenced. 

Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an 
edifice devoted to the religion of my country ! I had not been in 
such a place I cannot tell for how long — certainly not for years ; 
and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had 

fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D . I 

had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke 
up. Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woke up ; but no ! 
alas, no ! I had not been asleep — at least not in the old church ; 
if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, 
striving, learning and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled 
away whilst I had been asleep — ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit 
had come on whilst I, had been asleep — how circumstances had 
altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I 
had not been asleep in the old church ! I was in a -pew, it is true, 
but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell 
asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew ; and then my com- 
panions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer 
with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but 
with the gypsy cral and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the 
Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself.^ No 
longer an innocent child, but a moody man, bearing in my face, 
as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings, of what 
I had learnt and unlearnt ; nevertheless, the general aspect of 
things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of yore. 
There was difference enough, it is true, but still there was a 
similarity — at least I thought so — the church, the clergyman and 

the clerk, differing in many respects from those of pretty D-- , 

put me strangely in mind of them ; and then the words ! — by-the- 
bye, was it not the magic of the words which brought the dear 
enchanting past so powerfully before the mind of Lavengro ? for 
the words were the same sonorous words of high import which 








1825.] 


THE SERMON. 


51 


had first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church 
of pretty D . 

The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my 
companions behaved in a most unexceptionable manner, sitting 
down and rising up when other people sat down and rose, and 
holding in their hands prayer-books which they found in the pew, 
into which they stared intently, though I observed that, with the 
exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, 
they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, as is the 
usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in 
in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to 
attention, as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the 
clergyman with a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe 
to be peculiar to their race. I'he clergyman gave out his text, 
and began to preach. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly 
between fifty and sixty, with greyish hair ; his features were very 
handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy cast : the tones of 
his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat of melan- 
choly in them. The text which he gave out was the following 
one : “In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the 
whole world, and lost his own soul } ” 

And on this text the clergyman preached long and well : he 
did not read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so 
rather surprised and offended me at first ; I was not used to such 
a style of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my 
country. I compared it within my mind with the style of preach- 
ing used by the high-church rector in the old church of pretty 

D , and I thought to myself it was very different, and being 

very different I did not like it, and I thought to myself how 

scandalised the people of D would have been had they heard 

it, and I figured ~to myself how indignant the high-church clerk 
would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of 

D and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour 

strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it 
did ; why, the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above 
the old city, preached in the same manner — at least he preached 
extempore ; ay, and something like the present clergyman ; for 
the Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and so 
did the present clergyman ; so I, of course, felt rather offended 
with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However, 
long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had 
taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the 
eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded. 


52 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked of the inestimable 
value of a man’s soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst his 
body, as every one knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible 
period of time ; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a 
man, who, for the sake of gaining the whole world — a thing, he 
said, which provided he gained he could only possess for a part 
of the time, during which his perishable body existed — should 
lose his soul, that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him 
to suffer indescribable misery time without end. 

There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very 
particular manner ; he said : “ That there were some people who 
gained something in return for their souls ; if they did not get the 
whole world, they got a part of it — lands, wealth, honour, or 
renown ; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of 
a man’s soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight or suffer 
tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the 
worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain 
pleasure and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost 
their souls, and got nothing for them — neither lands, wealth, 
renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised 
by everybody. My friends,” he added, “if the man is a fool 
who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool he must be 
who barters his soul for nothing.” 

The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, 
wandered around the whole congregation ; and when he had 
concluded them, the eyes of the whole congregation were turned 
upon my companions and myself. 


CHAPTER IX. 


The service over, my companions and myself returned towards 
the encampment by the way we came. Some of the humble 
part of the congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. 
Mr. Petulengro and his wife, however, returned their laughs and 
jokes with interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing : 
Tawno, like most handsome fellows, having very little to say for 
himself at any time ; and myself, though not handsome, not 
being particularly skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for 
a considerable time, making all kinds of observations about 
gypsies ; but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them 
behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and 
Tawno Chikno walked together, even as they had come; whilst 
Mr. Petulengro and myself followed at a little distance, 
t “ That was a very fine preacher we heard,” said I to Mr. 

Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields. 

“Very fine indeed, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he is 
talked of far and wide for his sermons ; folks say that there is 
scarcely another like him in the whole of England.” 

“ He looks rather melancholy, Jasper.” 

“ He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of 
the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief 
for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; 
for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the 
pulpit before he lost his wife ; since then, the whole country has 

rung with the preaching of the clergyman of M as they call 

him. Those two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with 
the female childer, are his daughters.” 

“You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever 
hear him preach before ? ” 

“ Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and 
his daughters too, and given us tracts ; for he is one of the people 
they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot 
read.” 

“You should learn to read, Jasper.” 

( 53 ) 


54 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ We have no time, brother.” 

“Are you not frequently idle ? ” 

“ Never, brother ; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we 
are engaged in taking our relaxation : so we have no time to 
learn.” 

“ You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to 
learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be 
all the better for knowing how to read.” 

“In what way, brother?” 

“ Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn 
your duty towards your fellow-creatures.” 

“ We know that already, brother ; the constables and justices 
have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads.” 

“ Yet you frequently break the laws.” 

“So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to 
read, brother.” 

“Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as, 
by so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves ; and 
your chief duty is to take care of your own souls ; did not the 
preacher say : ‘ In what is a man profited, provided he gain the 
whole world ? ’ ” 

“ We have not much of the world, brother.” 

“ Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes 
of the whole congregation were turned tpwards our pew when the 
preacher said : ‘ There are some people who lose their souls, and 
get nothing in exchange ; who are outcast, despised, and miser- 
able ’ ? Now was not what he said quite applicable to the 
gypsies ? ” 

“ We are not miserable, brother.” 

“ Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of 
ground of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you not 
spoken ill of by everybody ? What’s a gypsy ? ” 

“ What’s the bird noising yonder, brother ?” 

“ The bird ! oh, that’s the cuckoo tolling ; but what has the 
cuckoo to do with the matter ? ” 

“ We’ll see, brother ; what’s the cuckoo ? ” 

“What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper.” 

“ Isn’t it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother? ” 

“I believe it is, Jasper.” 

Nobody knows whence it comes, brother.” 

“ I believe not, Jasper.” 

“ Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own ? ” 

“ So they say, Jasper,” 


1825.] 


CUCKOO AND GYPSY. 


55 


“With every person’s bad word, brother?” 

“ Yes, Jasper ; every person is mocking it.” 

“Tolerably merry, brother?” 

“ Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper.” 

“ Of no use at all, brother?” 

“ None whatever, Jasper.” 

“You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?” 

“Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny 
bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green 
trees and fields ; no, I can’t say I wish exactly to get rid of the 
cuckoo.” 

“ Well, brother, what’s a Romany chal?” 

“You must answer that question yourself, Jasper.” 

“ A roguish, chaffing fellow ; a’n’t he, brother ? ” 

“Ay, ay, Jasper.” 

“ Of no use at all, brother ? ” 

“Just so Jasper; I see ” 

“ Something very much like a cuckoo, brother ? ” 

“ I see what you are after, Jasper.” 

“You would like to get rid of us, wouldn’t you?” 

“ Why no ; not exactly.” 

“ We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and sum- 
mer time ; are we, brother ? and the voices of our chies, with their 
cukkerin and dukkerin, don’t help to make them pleasant?” 

“ I see what you are at, Jasper.” 

“You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, 
wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might 
wish.” 

“And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory 
wenches ; hey, brother ? ” . 

“ Can’t say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a 
picturesque, people, and in many respects an ornament both to 
town and country ; painting and lil writing too are under great 
obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your 
campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been 
written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to 
represent gypsies, have been the principal figures. I think if we 
were without you, we should begin to miss you.” 

“Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted 
into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother ; frequently, as I 
have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the 
cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in 


56 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill 
of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again.” 

“Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and 
cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper! ” 

“ And why not cuckoos, brother ? ” 

“You should not talk so, Jasper ; what you say is little short 
of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul? ” 

“ And how should a man ? ” 

“ Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.” 

“ How do you know it ? ” 

“We know very well.” 

“ Would you take your oath of it, brother — your bodily oath ? ” 
“ Why, I think I might, Jasper !” 

“ Did you ever see the soul, brother?” 

“No, I never saw it.” 

“ Then how could you swear to it ? A pretty figure you would 
make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. 
^ Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it ? 
Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman 
stole the donkey’s foal ? ’ Oh, there’s no one for cross-question- 
ing like Counsellor P . Our people when they are in a 

hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. 
Now, brother, how can you get over the ‘ upon your oath, fellow, 
will you say that you have a soul ? ’ ” 

“ Well, we will take no oaths on the subject ; but you yourself 
believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in 
dukkerin ; now what is dukkerin but the soul science? ” 

“ When did I say that I believed in it?” 

“ Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark 
in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche 
to the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder and flame 
of heaven.” 

“ I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother.” 

“Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw 
rode every night on horseback down the wooded hill.” 

“ I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have I ” 

“ I wish I had not, Jasper; but I can’t help it, it is my mis- 
fortune.” 

“ Misfortune ! well, perhaps it is ; at any rate it is very ungen- 
teel to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to 
show you have a long memory looks very vulgar ; and that you 
can’t give a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as 
soon as possible — more especially a promise, or an acquaintance 


1825.] 


SPIRITUAL DISCOURSE. 


57 


when he happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don’t deny that 
I may have said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw’s 
dook, which you say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, 
or say I believe, don’t be certain that I shall believe the next, or 
say I do.” 

“ Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on 
quoting a piece of a song, that when a man dies he is cast into 
the earth, and there’s an end of him.” 

“ I did, did I ? Lor’, what a memory you have, brother. But 
you are not sure that I hold that opinion now.” 

“ Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we 
have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an 
opinion.” 

“ However, brother, .don’t be sure I do not, however shocking 
such an opinion may be to you.” 

“ What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper.” 

“We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser 
heads than yours before now.” 

“You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a 
distinct race.” 

“ I say, brother ! ” 

“ Yes, Jasper.” 

“ What do you think of our women ? ” 

“ They have certainly very singular names, Jasper.” 

“ Names ! Lavengro ! However, brother, if you had been as 
fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of 
ours.” 

“ What do you mean, Jasper? ” 

“ A’n’t they rum animals ? ” 

“ They have tongues of their own, Jasper.” 

“ Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother? ” 

“ Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne’s. I have always been very 
civil to them, so ” 

“ They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret 
is in them.” 

“ They seem rather flighty, Jasper.” 

“ Ay, ay, brother ! ” 

“ Rather fond of loose discourse ! ” 

“ Rather so, brother.” 

“ Can you always trust them, Jasper ! ” 

“ We never watch them, brother.” 

“ They can always trust you ? ” 

“ Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get on 


58 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


very well together, except Mikailia and her husband ; but Mikailia 
is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may 
be expected to be jealous — though he would not part with her for 
a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, nor any 
other chal with his.” 

Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, 
Jasper?” 

“ My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother ? ” 

“ But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper.” 

“Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not 
far from the sign of the gammon.” 

“ Gammon of bacon, I suppose.” 

“Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means ” 

“I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an 
ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda.” 

“ LoP, brother ! how learned in lils you are ! ” 

“ Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, 
Jasper; for example — in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, 

‘ Your mother is up,’ ^there’s a noble Norse word ; mother, 
there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, 
as I discovered by reading the Sagas, Jasper.” 

“ Lor’, brother ! how book-learned you be.” 

“ Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust 
your wife with the duke ? ” 

“ I think I could, brother, or even with yourself.” 

“ Myself, Jasper ! Oh, I never troubled my head about your 
wife ; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios 
and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters ; 
and then even one of your own songs say so — the song which 
Ursula was singing the other afternoon.” 

“That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by 
the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals.” 

“ Well ! but there’s your sister-in-law, Ursula herself, Jasper.” 

“ Ursula herself, brother?” 

“You were talking of my having her, Jasper.” 

“ Well, brother, why didn’t you have her?” 

“ Would she have had me? ” 

“Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and 
speak Romany so remarkably well.” 

“ Poor thing ! she looks very innocent ! ” 

“ Remarkably so, brother ! however, though not born on the 
same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman 
rnatters,” 


1825.] 


THAT SONG. 


59 


“ I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in con- 
nection with that song.” 

“You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. 
After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or 
two in connection with that song.” 


CHAPTER X. 


I TOOK tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, 
outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged 
with his wife in his own tabernacle ; Sylvester was there, however, 
lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I 
thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. 
His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper ; and, 
besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was 
torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed 
powerful ; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. “ I am 
sorry that man has lost his wife,” thought I ; “ for I am sure he 
will never get another. What surprises me is, that he ever found' 
a woman disposed to unite her lot with his ! ” 

After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts 
were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how 
long she would stay away. At length, becoming tired and listless, 
I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of 
the Bible at the place where I had left off. “ What better could 
I do,” methought, “on a Sunday evening ? ” I was then near 
the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which 
was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. 
Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, 
which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a 
thorn bush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, 
dressed as she was in her Sunday’s best. 

“ Good-evening, Ursula,” said I ; “I little thought to have the 
pleasure of seeing you here.” 

“ Nor would you, brother,” said Ursula, “ had not Jasper told 
me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to 
me under a hedge ; so, hearing that, I watched your motions and 
came here and sat down.” 

“ I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read 
the Bible, Ursula, but ” 

“Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the 
Miduveleskoe lil ; you can speak to me under a hedge some other 
time.” 

(6o) 


1825.] 


UNDER THE HEDGE. 


61 


“ I think I will sit down with you, Ursula ; for, after all, read- 
ing godly books in dingles at eve is rather sombre work. Yes, I 
think I will sit down with you ; ” and I sat down by her side. 

“ Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the 
hedge, what have you to say to me ? ” 

“Why, I hardly know, Ursula.” 

“ Not know, brother ; a pretty fellow you to ask young women 
to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not 
know what to say to them.” 

“Oh ! ah ! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a 
great interest in you ? ” 

“ Thank ye, brother ; kind of you, at any rate.” 

“ You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula.” 

“ A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, 
such as shawls, gold watches and chains in the shops, behind the 
big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. 
Many’s the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them ; 
but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, 
besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the 
gull’s bath to the foreign country.” 

“ Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula? ” 

“ Of course, brother, very great temptations ; don’t you think 
them so? ” ■ 

“ Can’t say I do, Ursula.” 

“ Then more fool you, brother ; but have the kindness to tell 
me what you would call a temptation ? ” 

“ Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula.” 

“ The hope of honour and renown ! very good, brother ; but 
I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, 
and good broad-cloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain 
much honour and — what do you call it ? amongst the gorgios, to 
say nothing of the Romany chals.” 

“ I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, 
roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were 
above being led by such trifles.” 

“ Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother ; no people 
on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the 
Romany chals, and more disposed to respect those who have 
them.” 

“ Then money and fine clothes would induce you to anything, 
Ursula ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, brother, anything.” 

“ To chore, Ursula? ” 


62 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ Like enough, brother ; gypsies have been transported 
before now for choring.” 

“To hokkawar?” 

“ Ay, ay ; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother.” 

“ In fact, to break the law in everything ? ” 

“ Who knows, brother, who knows ? As I said before, gold and 
fine clothes are great temptations.” 

“ Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought 
you so depraved.” 

“ Indeed, brother.” 

“ To think that I am seated by one who is willing to — to ” 

“Go on, brother.” 

“ To play the thief.” 

“ Go on, brother.” 

“ The liar.” 

“ Go on, brother.” 

“ The— the ” 

“ Go on, brother.” 

“ The — the lubbeny.” 

“ The what, brother? ” said Ursula, starting from her seat. 

“ Why, the lubbeny ; don’t you ” 

“ I tell you what, brother,” said Ursula, looking somewhat 
pale, and speaking very low, “if I had only something in my 
hand, I would do you a mischief.” 

“Why, what is the matter, Ursula?” said I; “how have I 
offended you ? ” 

“ How have you offended me ? Why, didn’t you insinivate 
just now that I was ready to play the — the ” 

“Go on, Ursula.” 

“ The — the I’ll not say it ; but I only wish I had some- 

thing in my hand.” 

“ If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it ; any offence 
I may have given you was from want of understanding you. 
Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about — to 
talk to you about.” 

“ Seated, not I ! It was only just now that you gave me to under- 
stand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar.” 

“Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you 
were both, Ursula ? ” 

“ I don’t much care being called a thief and a liar,” said 
Ursula; “a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very 
honest woman, but ” 

“ Well, Ursula.” 


1825.] 


RUM CONVERSATION, 


63 


“ I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I 
could be the third thing, so help me duvel ! I’ll do you a mis- 
chief. By my God I will ! ” 

“ Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call 
it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what 
you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue — a perfect 
Lucretia ; but ” 

“ My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia : Lucretia is 
not of our family, but one of the Bucklands ; she travels about 
Oxfordshire ; yet I am as good as she any day.” 

“ Lucretia 1 how odd ! Where could she have got that name ? 
Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as 
she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a 
mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom ; how 
a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve 
her virtue is what I don’t understand. You confess that you are 
very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don’t barter your 
virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like 
to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed 
to great temptation, Ursula ; for you are of a beauty calculated to 
captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are 
enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?” 

“Well, brother,” said Ursula, “as you say you mean no 
harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with 
you ; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever 
came nigh, and say the coolest things.” 

And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side. 

“ Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject 
of your temptations. I suppose that^you travel very much about, 
and show yourself in all kinds of places? ” 

“In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much 
about, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public- 
houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings.” 

“And do not people often address you in a very free 
manner ? ” 

‘ Frequently, brother ; and I give them tolerably free answers.” 

“Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean 
presents of value, such as ” 

“Silk handkerchiefs, shawls and trinkets; very frequently, 
brother.” 

“ And what do you do, Ursula ? ” 

“ I takes what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as 
soon as I can.” 


64 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ Well, but don’t people expect something for their presents ? 
I don’t mean dukkerin, dancing and the like ; but such a moderate 
and innocent thing as a choomer, Ursula?” 

“ Innocent thing, do you call it, brother? ” 

“ The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who 
give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return ? ” 

“Very frequently, brother.” 

“And do you ever grant it? ” 

“ Never, brother.” 

“ How do you avoid it ? ” 

“I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows 
me, I tries to baffle them by means of jests and laughter ; and if 
they persist, J uses bad and terrible language, of which I have 
plenty in store.” 

“ But if your terrible language has no effect ? ” 

“ Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I 
uses my teeth and nails.” 

“ x\nd are they always sufficient?” 

“ I have only had to use them twice, brother ; but then I 
found them sufficient.” 

“ But suppose the person who followed you was highly agree- 
able, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for 
example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him 
the choomer ? ” 

“We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the 
gypsy father makes no difference ; and what's more, sees none.” 

“ Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such 
indifference.” 

“What cares we for the world, brother ! we are not of the world.” 

“ But your fathers, brothers and uncles give you credit, I 
suppose, Ursula.” 

“ Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers and cokos gives us all 
manner of credit ; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in 
a public-house where my batu or coko — perhaps both — are play- 
ing on the fiddle ; well, my batu and my coko beholds me 
amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing 
nonsense ; but they are under no apprehension ; and presently 
they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and 
Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him 
abroad, into the dark night perhaps ; well, my batu and my 
coko goes on fiddling just as if I were six miles off asleep in the 
tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his 
Lincolns and his greens.” 


1825.] 


GYPSY LAW. 


65 


“ They know they can trust you, Ursula ? " 

“Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust 
myself.” 

“ So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, 
Ursula?” 

“Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you.” 

“ But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula.” 

“ Amongst gorgios, very so, brother.” 

“Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one’s character 
even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of 
revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you 
the thing that is not, were to meet you on the race-course the 
next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, 
amidst a knot of jeering militiamen, how would you proceed, 
Ursula? would you not be abashed?” 

“By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law 
against him.” 

“ Your action at law, Ursula ? ” 

“Yes, brother, I should give a whistle, whereupon all one’s 
cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would 
leave their fiddling, dukkerin and horse-dealing, and come flock- 
ing about me. ‘ What’s the matter, Ursula ? ’ says my coko. 

‘ Nothing at all,’ I replies, ‘ save and except that gorgio, in his 

greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the with 

him.’ ‘Oho, he does, Ursula,’ says my coko, ‘try your action of 
law against him, my lamb,’ and he puts something privily into my 
hands ; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and 
staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries 
out : ‘ You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I 
was out with you abroad ? ’ ‘ Yes,’ said the local officer, ‘ I says 

you did,’ looking down all the time. ‘You are a liar,’ says I, and 
forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind 
me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand.” 

“And this is your action at law, Ursula?” 

“Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law.” 

“And would your breaking the fellow’s head quite clear you 
of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, and what not ? ” 

“They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they 
would know that I would never condescend to be over-intimate 
with a gorgio ; the breaking the head would be merely intended 
to justify Ursula in the eyes of the gorgios.” 

“And would it clear you in their eyes?” 

“ Would it not, brother ? When they saw the blood running 

5 


66 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


down from the fellow’s cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, 
they would be quite satisfied ; why, the fellow would not be able 
to show his face at fair or merry-making for a year and three- 
quarters.” 

“ Did you ever try it, Ursula? ” 

“ Can’t say I ever did, brother, but it would do.” 

“ And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?” 

“Why, ’t is advised by gypsy liri, brother. It’s part of our 
way of settling difficulties amongst ourselves; for example, if a 
young Roman were to say the thing which is not respecting 
Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting of the 
people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow 
amongst them ; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula’s hand, 
who would then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, ‘ Did 

I play the with you? ’ and were he to say ‘Yes,’ she would 

crack his head before the eyes of all.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ Ursula, I was bred an apprentice to gorgio 
law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I con- 
scientiously can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing 
an action for defamation is much less tedious, and far more 
satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. I wish you now to clear up 
a certain point which is rather mysterious to me. You say that 
for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with a gorgio is quite 
out of the question, yet only the other day I heard you singing a 
song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri by a 
grand gorgious gentleman.” 

“ A sad let down,” said Ursula. 

“Well,” said I, “sad or not, there’s the song that speaks of 
the thing, which you give me to understand is not.” 

“Well, if the thing ever was,” said Ursula, “it was a long time 
ago, and perhaps, after all, not true.” 

“ Then why do you sing the song? ” 

“ I’ll tell you, brother, we sings the song now and then to be 
a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the 
way of acquaintance with the gorgios ; and a warning it is ; you 
see how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent 
by her mother, with all kind of disgrace and bad language ; but 
you don’t know that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos 
and pals in an uninhabited place ; the song doesn’t say it, but the 
story says it, for there is a story about it, though, as I said before, 
it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn’t true.” 

“But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the 
cokos and pals bury the girl alive?” 


1825.] 


RACE PURITY. 


67 


“ I can’t say what they would do,” said Ursula ; “ I suppose 
they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any rate, she 
would be driven from the tan, and avoided by all her family and 
relations as a gorgio’s acquaintance ; so that, perhaps, at last, she 
would be glad if they would bury her alive.” 

“ Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on 
the part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form 
an improper acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that 
the batus and cokos could hardly object to the chi’s entering into 
the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.” 

Ursula was silent. 

“ Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula.” 

“Well, brother, suppose it be?” 

“ I don’t see why a Romany chi should object to enter into 
the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.” 

“ You don’t, brother, don’t you ? ” 

“ No,” said I ; “ and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding 
your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and 
then occur between gorgios and Romany chies, the result of 
which is the mixed breed, called half and half, which is at present 
travelling about England, and to which the Flaming Tinman 
belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne.” 

“As for the half and halfs,” said Ursula, “they are a bad 
set ; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo 
Herne.” 

“ All that you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit 
that there are half and halfs.” 

“ The more’s the pity, brother.” 

“ Pity, or not, you admit the fact ; but how do you account 
for it?” 

“ How do I account for it ? why, I will tell you, by the break 
up of a Roman family, brother — the father of a small family dies, 
and, perhaps, the mother ; and the poor children are left behind ; 
sometimes they are gathered up by their relations, and some- 
times, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them 
up in the observance of gypsy law ; but sometimes they are not 
so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers and 
basket-makers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, 

and so I hate to talk of the matter, brother ; but so comes 

this race of the half and halfs.” 

“ Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless 
compelled by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a 
gorgio?” 


68 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“We are not over-fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates 
basket-makers, and folks that live in caravans.” 

“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio who is not a basket- 
maker, a fine, handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine 
house ” 

“We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a 
house in my life.” 

“ But would not plenty of money induce you ? ” 

“ I hate houses, brother, and those who. live in them.” 

“ Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine 
house ; and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, 
and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him ? ” 

“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?” 

“ Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.” 

“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is 
he?” 

“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.” 

“ Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?” 

“ Why, no, Ursula ; why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you 
meant yourself.” 

“Myself! Ursula; I have no fine house to resign; nor have 
I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for 
you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as hand- 
some, indeed, as Meridiana in ” 

“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, 
with a toss of her head. 

“ Why, in old Pulci’s ” 

“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true, brother. Meridiana is a 
Borzlam, and travels with her own people and not with old 
Fulcher, who is a gorgio, and a basket-maker.” 

“ I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great 
Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in 
his poem called Morgante Maggiore^ speaks of Meridiana, the 
daughter of ” 

“Old Carus Borzlam,” said Ursula; “but if the fellow you 
mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of 
wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana? ” 

“ The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have 
got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of 
Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Cara- 
doro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his 
capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wished 


1825.] 


HEDGE NOTES ON PULCL 


6g 


to obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was 
relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with 
one of whom, Oliver, his daughter, Meridiana, fell in love.” 

“ I see,” said Ursula, “ that it must have been altogether a 
different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would 
never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver ! why, that is the 
name of the curo-mengro, who lost the fight near the chong gav, 
the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no ! 
Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as 
to take up with Tom Oliver.” 

“ I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer 
of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, 
daughter of Caradoro, fell in love, and for whose sake she 
renounced her religion and became a Christian, and finally 
ingravidata, or cambri, by him : — 

‘ E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia, 

Che dette a Carlo-man poi gran vittoria ’ ; 

which means ” 

“I don’t want to know what it means,” said Ursula; “no 
good, I’m sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles’s wain’s pal 
was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no great 
catch, brother ; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I 
think myself better to look at than she, though I will say she is 
no lubbeny, and would scorn ” 

“ I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt 
that you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of 
Oliver. What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is 
this, that though I have a great regard for you, and highly admire 
you, it is only in a brotherly way, and ” 

“And you had nothing better to say to me,” said Ursula, 
“ when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you 
liked me in a brotherly way ! well, I declare ” 

“You seem disappointed, Ursula.” 

“Disappointed, brother! not I.” 

“ You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of 
course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you 
in a brotherly way; I wished to have a conversation with you 
beneath a hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you 
some information respecting the song which you sung the other 
day, and the conduct of Roman females, which has always struck 
me as being highly unaccountable ; so, if you thought anything 
else ” 


70 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, 
brother ? Bah ! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a 
picker-up of old rags.” 

“ Don’t be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; you 
are very handsome and very clever; indeed, with your beauty 
and cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been 
married.” 

“You do, do you, brother?” 

“Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not 
much past the prime of youth, so ” 

“ Not much past the prime of youth ! Don’t be uncivil, 
brother, I was only twenty-two last month.” 

“ Don’t be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, or, 
I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than 
twenty-six in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise 
you to accept the first offer that’s made to you.” 

“ Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late ; I 
accepted the first offer that was made me five years ago.” 

“ You married five years ago, Ursula ! is it possible?” 

“ Quite possible, brother, I assure you.” 

“ And how came I to know nothing about it ? ” 

“ How comes it that you don’t know many thousand things 
about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all 
their affairs?” 

“ Married, Ursula, married ! well, I declare ! ” 

“You seem disappointed, brother.” 

“ Disappointed ! Oh ! no, not at all ; but Jasper, only a few 
weeks ago, told me that you were not married ; and, indeed, 
almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get 
a husband.” 

“And you believed him? I’ll tell you, brother, for your in- 
struction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than 
Jasper Petulengro.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you 
married — who might he be ? A gorgio, or a Romany chal ? ” 

“ Gorgio, or Romany chal ! Do you think I would ever 
condescend to a gorgio ! It was a Camomescro, brother, a 
Lovell, a distant relation of my own.” 

“And where is he? and what became of him ! Have you 
any family ? ” 

“ Don’t think I am going to tell you all my history, brother ; 
and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with 
you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house.” 


1825.] 


‘^DISAPPOINTED, BROTHER? 


71 


“ Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily con- 
gratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell ? 
I have never seen him : I wish to congratulate him too. You 
are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or 
the Despina of Ricciardetto. Ricciardetto, Ursula, is a poem 
written by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation 
of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne 
and his paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to 
besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, 
King of Cafria ; she was the beloved of Ricciardetto, and was 
beautiful as an angel ; but I make no doubt you are quite as 
handsome as she.” 

“Brother,” said Ursula — but the reply of Ursula I reserve 
for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an 
uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the 
matter discussed is a sufficient apology. 


CHAPTER XL 


“ Brother,” said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her 
feet, “ I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken 
person than yourself can’t be found. I have a great regard for 
you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in 
the way of words or conversation. Mine is not a very happy 
story, but as you wish to hear it, it is quite at your service. 
Launcelot Lovell made me an offer, as you call it, and we were 
married in Roman fashion ; that is, we gave each other our right 
hands, and promised to be true to each other. We lived together 
two years, travelling sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our 
relations ; I bore him two children, both of which were still-born, 
partly, I believe, from the fatigue I underwent in running about 
the country telling dukkerin when I was not exactly in a state to 
do so, and partly from the kicks and blows which my husband 
Launcelot was in the habit of giving me every night, provided I 
came home with less than five shillings, which it is sometimes im- 
possible to make in the country, provided no fair or merry-making 
is going on. At the end of two years my husband, Launcelot, 
whistled a horse from a farmer’s field, and sold it for forty 
pounds ; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried and 
condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two days 
before he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, 
and in the presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of 
ginger-bread, in which there was a dainty saw which could cut 
through iron. I then took on wonderfully, turned my eyes inside 
out, fell down in a seeming fit, and was carried out of the prison. 
That same night my husband sawed his irons off, cut through the 
bars of his window, and dropping down a height of fifty feet, 
lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath where I 
was camped alone. We were just getting things ready to be off, 
when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners 
after my husband, Launcelot Lovell ; for his escape had been dis- 
covered within a quarter of an hour after he had got away. My 
husband, without bidding me farewell, set off at full speed, and 

(72) 


1825.] 


URSULA^S STORY. 


n 


they after him, but they could not take him, and so they came 
back and took me, and shook me, and threatened me, and had me 
before the poknees, who shook his head at me, and threatened me 
in Order to make me discover where my husband was, but I said 
I did not know, which was true enough ; not that I would have 
told him if I had. So at last the poknees and the runners, not 
being able to make anything out of me, were obliged to let me go, 
and I went in search of my husband. I wandered about with my 
cart for several days in the direction in which I saw him run off, 
with my eyes bent on the ground, but could see no marks of him ; 
at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw my husband’s patteran.” 
“You saw your husband’s patteran ? ” 

“Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?” 

“ Of course, Ursula ; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which 
the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to 
any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they 
have taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest 
for me, Ursula.” 

“ Like enough, brother ; but what does patteran mean ? ” 
“Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before.” 

“And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?” 

“ Nothing at all, Ursula ; do you ? ” 

“ What’s the name for the leaf of a tree, brother ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said I \ “ it’s odd enough that I have asked 
that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they 
always told me that they did not know.” 

“ No more they did, brother ; there’s only one person in 
England that knows, and that’s myself — the name for a leaf is 
patteran. Now there are two that knows it — the other is yourself.” 

“ Dear me, Ursula, how very strange ! I am much obliged to 
you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but 
who told you ? ” 

“ My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when 
she was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, as no one 
has a better right to know than yourself, as she hated you 
mortally : it was one day when you had been asking our company 
what was the word for a leaf, and nobody could tell you, that she 
took me aside and told me, for she was in a good humour, and 
triumphed in seeing you baulked. She told me the word for leaf 
was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten 
the true meaning. She said that the trail was called patteran, be- 
cause the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks 
with the leaves and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner. 


74 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


She said that nobody knew it but herself, who was one of the old 
sort, and begged me never to tell the word to any one but him I 
should marry ; and to be particularly cautious never to let you 
know it, whom she hated. Well, brother, perhaps I have done 
wrong- to tell you ; but, as I said before, I likes you, and am 
always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation ; my 
mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never 
know anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my 
husband about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making 
our private trails with leaves and branches of trees, which none of 
the other gypsy people did ; so, when I saw my husband’s patteran, 

I knew it at once, and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles 
towards the north ; and then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, 
with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I found the patteran, 
which directed me to proceed along the bank towards the east, and 
I followed my husband’s patteran towards the east ; and before I 
had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had 
given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much 
heed, I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far 
from the water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, 
and perhaps to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people 
about the door; and, when I entered, I found there was what 
they calls an inquest being held upon a body in that house, and 
the jury had just risen to go and look at the body ; and being a 
woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go with them, 
and so I did ; and no sooner did I see the body, than I knew it 
to be my husband’s ; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew 
it partly by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, and 
I cried out, ‘ It is my husband’s body,’ and I fell down in a fit, 
and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming one.” 

“ Dear me,” said I, “ how terrible ! But tell me, Ursula, how 
did your husband come by his death? ” 

“ The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, 
brother, and he was drowned ; for, like most of our people, he 
could not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in 
the water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating. 
Well, brother, when the people of the neighbourhood found that I 
was the wife of the drowned man, they were very kind to me, and 
made a subscription for me, with which, after having seen my 
husband buried, I returned the way I had come, till I met Jaspei 
and his people, and with them I have travelled ever since : I was 
very melancholy for a long time, I assure you, brother ; for the 
death of my husband preyed very much upon my mind.” 


1825.] 


REMARKS, 


n 


“ His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, 
really, if he had died a natural one, you could scarcely have 
regretted it, for he appears to have treated you barbarously.” 

“ Women must bear, brother ; and, barring that he kicked and 
beat me, and drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely 
stand, he was not a bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, 
is allowed to kick and beat his wife, and to bury her alive if he 
thinks proper. I am a gypsy, and have nothing to say against 
the law.” 

“ But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it ? ” 

“ She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the 
Roman people : so she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. 
Moreover, her husband does not think fit to kick or beat her, 
though it is my opinion she would like him all the better if he 
were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury her alive; at 
any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him more.” 

“Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper 
Petulengro, Ursula.” 

“ Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, 
brother ; you must travel in their company some time before you 
can understand them ; they are a strange two, up to all kind of 
chaffing ; but two more regular Romans don’t breathe, and Pll tell 
you, for your instruction, that there isn’t a better mare-breaker in 
England than Jasper Petulengro ; if you can manage Miss Isopel 
Berners as well as ” 

“Isopel Berners,” said I, “how came you to think of her? ” 

“ How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does 
with you in Mumpers’ Dingle, and travelling about with you ; you 
will have, brother, more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has 
to manage my sister Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her 
before, only I wanted to know what you had to say to me ; and 
when we got into discourse, I forgot her. I say, brother, let me 
tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you will never ” 

“ I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula.” 

“ Do let me tell you your ‘dukkerin, brother, you will never 
manage ” 

“ I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with 
Isopel Berners. Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the 
subject ; it is surprising to me that after all you have undergone, 
you should look so beautiful. I suppose you do not think of 
marrying again, Ursula?” 

“No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any 
reasonable mort ; especially such a good husband as I have got.” 


76 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ Such a good husband ! why, I thought you told me your 
husband was drowned ? ” 

“ Yes, brother, my first husband was.” 

“ And have you a second ? ” 

“To be sure, brother.” 

“And who is he? in the name of wonder.” 

“ Who is he ? why Sylvester, to be sure.” 

“I do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry 
with you ; such a handsome young woman as yourself to take up 
with such a nasty pepper-faced good for nothing ” 

“ I won’t hear my husband abused, brother ; so you had better 
say no more.” 

“ Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies ? has he a penny 
of his own, Ursula ? ” 

“ Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to 
take care of him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I will 
chore, if necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so 
heavy as scarcely to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you 
would not think him lazy if you were in a ring with him : he is a 
proper man with his hands; Jasper is going to back him for 
twenty pounds against Slammocks of the Chong gav, the brother 
of Roarer and Bell-metal, he says he has no doubt that he will 
win.” 

“ Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. 
Have you been long married? ” 

“ About a fortnight, brother ; that dinner, the other day, when 
I sang the song, was given in celebration of the wedding. 

“Were you married in a church, Ursula? ” 

“We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples- and 
lubbenys are ever married in a church : we took each other’s 
words. Brother, I have been with you near three hours beneath 
this hedge. I will go to my husband.” 

“ Does he know that you are here ? ” 

“ He does, brother.” 

“ And is he satisfied ? ” 

“ Satisfied ! of course. Lor’, you gorgios ! Brother, I go to 
my husband and my house.” And, thereupon, Ursula rose and 
departed. 

After waiting a little time I also arose ; it was now dark, and 
I thought I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle ; 
at the entrance of it I found Mr. Petulengro. “ Well, brother,” 
said he, “ what kind of conversation have you and TJrsula had 
beneath the hedge ? ” 


1825.] 


AN EAVESDROPPER. 


77 


“If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should 
have come and sat down beside us ; you knew where we were.” 

“Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat 
down behind you.” 

“ Behind the hedge, Jasper? ” 

“ Behind the hedge, brother.” 

“ And heard all our conversation ? ” 

“Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was.” 

“ ’Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good 
of themselves ; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed 
upon you.” 

“If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, 
brother, and she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not 
always stick exactly to truth ; you, however, have not much to 
complain of me.” 

“You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she 
was not married.” 

“She was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, 
not to Sylvester ; nor was I av/are that she was going to marry 
him. I once thought you had a kind of regard for her, and I am 
sure she had as much for you as a Romany chi can have for a 
gorgio. I half-expected to have heard you make love to her 
behind the hedge, but I begin to think you care for nothing in 
this world but old words and strange stories. Lor’, to take a 
young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as you did to 
Ursula ; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, 
with your gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a 
cunning one, brother.” 

“There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. If 
people think I am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, 
simplicity of character is a puzzle to them. Your women are 
certainly extraordinary creatures, Jasper.” 

“ Didn’t I say they were rum animals ? Brother, we Romans 
shall always stick together as long as they stick fast to us.” 

“Do you think they always will, Jasper? ” 

“ Can’t say, brother ; nothing lasts for ever. Romany chies 
are Romany chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty 
years ago. My wife, though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, 
brother. I think she is rather fond of Frenchmen and French 
discourse. I tell you what, brother, if ever gypsyism breaks up, 
it will be owing to our chies having been bitten by that mad 
puppy they calls gentility.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


I DESCENDED to the bottom of the dingle. It was Dearly involved 
in obscurity. To dissipate the feeling of melancholy which came 
over my mind, I resolved to kindle a fire ; and having heaped 
dry sticks upon my hearth, and added a billet or two, I struck a 
light, and soon produced a blaze. Sitting down, I fixed my eyes 
upon the blaze, and soon fell into a deep meditation. I thought 
of the events of the day, the scene at church, and what I had 
heard at church, the danger of losing one’s soul, the doubts of 
Jasper Petulengro as to whether one had a soul. I thought over 
the various arguments which I had either heard, or which had 
come spontaneously to my mind, for or against the probability of 
a state of future existence. They appeared to me to be tolerably 
evenly balanced. I then thought that it was at all events taking 
the safest part to conclude that there was a soul. It would be a 
terrible thing, after having passed one’s life in the disbelief of the 
existence of a soul, to wake up after death a soul, and to find 
one’s self a lost soul. Yes, methought I would come to the con- 
clusion that one has a soul. Choosing the safe side, however, 
appeared to me to be playing a rather dastardly part. I had 
never been an admirer of people who chose the safe side in 
everything ; indeed I had always entertained a thorough contempt 
for them. Surely it would be showing more manhood to adopt 
the dangerous side, that of disbelief ; I almost resolved to do so, 
but yet in a question of so much importance, I ought not to be 
guided by vanity. The question was not which was the safe, but 
the true side ? yet how was I to know which was the true side? 
Then I thought of the Bible — which I had been reading in the 
morning — that spoke of the soul and a future state ; but was the 
Bible true ? I had heard learned and moral men say that it was 

true, but I had also heard learned and moral men say that it was 

not : how was I to decide ? Still that balance of probabilities ! 

If I could but see the way of truth, I would follow it, if 

necessary, upon hands and knees ; on that I was determined ; 
but I could not see it. Feeling my brain begin] to turn round, I 

(78) 


1825.] 


REVIEW. 


79 


resolved to think of something else ; and forthwith began to think 
of what had passed between Ursula and myself in our discourse 
beneath the hedge. 

I mused deeply on what she had told me as to the virtue of 
the females of her race. How singular that virtue must be which 
was kept pure and immaculate by the possessor, whilst indulging 
in habits of falsehood and dishonesty ! I had always thought the 
gypsy females extraordinary beings. I had often wondered at 
them, their dress, their manner of speaking, and, not least, at 
their names; but, until the present day, I had been unacquainted 
with the most extraordinary point connected with them. How 
came they possessed of this extraordinary virtue? was it because 
they were thievish? I remembered that an ancient thief-taker, who 
had retired from his useful calling, and who frequently visited the 

office of my master at law, the respectable S , who had the 

management of his property — I remembered to have heard this 
worthy, with whom I occasionally held discourse philosophic and 
profound, when he and I chanced to be alone together in the 
office, say that all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well- 
regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by 
their love of gain ; but this axiom could scarcely hold good with 
respect to these women — however thievish they might be, they did 
care for something besides gain : they cared for their husbands. 
If they did thieve, they merely thieved for their husbands ; and 
though, perhaps, some of them were vain, they merely prized their 
beauty because it gave them favour in the eyes of their husbands. 
Whatever the husbands were — and Jasper had almost insinuated 
that the males occasionally allowed themselves some latitude — 
they appeared to be as faithful to their husbands as the ancient 
Roman matrons were to theirs. Roman matrons ! and, after all, 
might not these be in reality Roman matrons? They called 
themselves Romans ; might not they be the descendants of the 
old Roman matrons? Might not they be of the same blood as 
Lucretia ? And were not many of their strange names — Lucretia 
amongst the rest — handed down to them from old Rome? It is 
true their language was not that of old Rome ; it was not, how- 
ever, altogether different from it. After all, the ancient Romans 
might be a tribe of these people, who settled down and founded 
a village with the tilts of carts, which, by degrees, and the influx 
of other people, became the grand city of the world. I liked the 
idea of the grand city of the world owing its origin to a people 
who had been in the habit of carrying their houses in their carts. 
Why, after all, should not the Romans of history be a branch of 


8o 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


these Romans? There were several points of similarity between 
them ; if Roman matrons were chaste, both men and women 
were thieves. Old Rome was the thief of the world ; yet still 
there were difficulties to be removed before I could persuade 
myself that the old Romans and my Romans were identical ; and 
in trying to remove these difficulties, I felt my brain once more 
beginning to turn, and in haste took up another subject of 
meditation, and that was the patteran, and what Ursula had told 
me about it. 

I had always entertained a strange interest for that sign by 
which in their wanderings the Romanese gave to those of their 
people who came behind intimation as to the direction which they 
took ; but it now inspired me with greater interest than ever — 
now that I had learnt that the proper meaning of it was the leaves 
of trees. I had, as I had said in my dialogue with Ursula, been 
very eager to learn the word for leaf in the Romanian language, but 
had never learnt it till this day ; so patteran signified leaf, the leaf 
of a tree ; and no one at present knew that but myself and Ursula, 
who had learnt it from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the 
old stock ; and then I thought what strange people the gypsies 
must have been in the old time. They were sufficiently strange 
at present, but they must have been far stranger of old ; they 
must have been a more peculiar people — their language must have 
been more perfect — and they must have had a greater stock of 
strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived some two or 
three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these people 
when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered whether 
I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, 
whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a 
strange, half-malicious, half-good-humoured being as Jasper, who 
would have instructed me in the language, then more deserving 
of note than at present. What might I not have done with that 
language, had I known it in its purity? Why, I might have 
written books in it ; yet those who spoke it would hardly have 
admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept more 
to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained 
their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learnt 
their language, and all their strange ways, and then — and then — 
and a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to 
think : “ Supposing I had accomplished all this, what would have 
been the profit of it ; and in what would all this wild gypsy dream 
have terminated ? ” 

Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I began to 


kEpLECTiOi^S. 


1^25.] 


81 


think : “ What was likely to be the profit of my present way of 
life ; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, con- 
versing with gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them 
their odd secrets?” What was likely to be the profit of such a 
kind of life, even should it continue for a length of time — a sup- 
position not very probable, for I was earning nothing to support 
me, and the funds with which I had entered upon this life were 
gradually disappearing. I was living, it is true, not unpleasantly, 
enjoying the healthy air of heaveri; but, upon the whole, was I 
not sadly misspending my time ? Surely I was ; and, aS" I looked 
back, it appeared to me that I had always been doing so. What 
had been the profit of the tongues which I had learnt ? had they 
ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no ! it appeared to 
me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, 
when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my 
imagination, and written the Life of Joseph Sell ; but even when I 
wrote the Life of Sell, was I not in a false position ? Provided I 
had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to make 
that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, 
and wander about the country for a time ? But could I, taking 
all circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had ? 
With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued 
with advantage the profession to which my respectable parents 
had endeavoured to bring me up? It appeared to me that I 
could not, and that the hand of necessity had guided me from my 
earliest years, until the present night, in which I found myself 
seated in the dingle, staring on the brands of the fire. But 
ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably gone, it was 
useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, what should I 
do in future? Should I write another book like the Life of Joseph 
Sell; take it to London, and offer it to a publisher? But when I 
reflected on the grisly sufferings which I had undergone whilst 
engaged in writing the Life of Sell, I shrank from the idea of a 
similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether I possessed the 
power to write a similar work — whether the materials for the life 
of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain ? Had I 
not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely 
playing at — a tinker or a gypsy ? But I soon saw that I was not 
fitted to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to 
play the gypsy or the tinker than to become either in reality. I 
had seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of 
that. All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my 
head ; tilling the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit ! but my 


82 


TUB ROMANY RY^. 


[1825. 


idea of tilling the soil had no connection with Britain ; for I could 
only expect to till the soil in Britain as a serf. I thought of till- 
ing it in America, in which it was said there was plenty of wild, 
unclaimed land, of which any one, who chose to clear it of its 
frees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, in an 
immense forest, clearing the land destined^ by my exertions, to be- 
come a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash 
of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe ; and then I 
bethought me that a man was intended to marry — I ought to 
marry ; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as 
a husband and a father than in America, engaged in tilling the 
ground? I fancied myself in America, engaged in tilling the 
ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. Well, \yhy not marry, 
and go and till the ground in America ? I was young, and youth 
was the time to marry in, and to labour in. I had the use of all 
my faculties ; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, 
and from writing the Zt/e of Joseph Sell ; but I could see tolerably 
well with them, and they were not bleared. I felt my arms, and 
thighs, and teeth — they were strong and sound enough ; so now 
was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong 
children — the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, 
which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would 
come when my eyes would be bleared, and, perhaps, sightless ; 
my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless ; when my teeth 
would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. 
No going a wooing then, no labouring, no eating strong flesh, 
and begetting lusty children then ; and I bethought me how, when 
all this should be, I should bewail the days of my youth as mis- 
spent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and 
begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I 
could not take care of myself ; and thinking of these things, I 
became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire till 
my eyes closed in a doze. 

I continued dozing over the fire, until rousing myself I perceived 
that the brands were nearly consumed, and I thought of retiring for 
the night. I arose, and was about to enter my tent, when a thought 
struck me. “Suppose,” thought I, “that Isopel Berners should 
return in the midst of the night, how dark and dreary would the 
dingle appear without a fire ! truly, I will keep up the fire, and I 
will do more ; I have no board to spread for her, but I will fill the 
kettle, and heat it, so that, if she comes, I may be able to welcome 
her with a cup of tea, for I know she loves tea.” Thereupon I 
piled more wood upon the fire, and soon succeeded in producing a 


1825.] 


FORETHOUGHT. 


83 


better blaze than before ; then, taking the kettle, I set out for the 
spring. On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the 
east, I perceived that Charles’s wain was nearly opposite to it, high 
above in the heavens, by which I knew that the night was tolerably 
well advanced. The gypsy encampment lay before me ; all was 
hushed and still within it, and its inmates appeared to be locked 
in slumber ; as I advanced, however, the dogs, which were fastened 
outside the tents, growled and barked ; but presently recognising 
me, they were again silent, some of them wagging their tails. As 
I drew near a particular tent, I heard a female voice say, “ Some 
one is coming ! ” and, as I was about to pass it, the cloth which 
formed the door was suddenly lifted up, and a black head and 
part of a huge naked body protruded. It was the head and upper 
part of the giant Tawno, who, according to the fashion of gypsy 
men, lay next the door wrapped in his blanket ; the blanket had, 
however, fallen off, and the starlight shone clear on his athletic 
tawny body, and was reflected from his large staring eyes. 

“ It is only I, Tawno,” said I, “ going to fill the kettle, as it is 
possible that Miss Berners may arrive this night.” “ Kos-ko,” 
drawled out Tawno, and replaced the curtain. Good, do you 
call it?” said the sharp voice of his wife; “there is no good in 
the matter ! if that young chap were not living with the rawnee in 
the illegal and uncertificated line, he would not be getting up in 
the middle of the night to fill her kettles.” Passing on, I pro- 
ceeded to the spring, where I filled the kettle, and then returned 
to the dingle. 

Placing the kettle upon the fire, I watched it till it began to 
boil; then removing it from the top of the brands, I placed it 
close beside the fire, and leaving it simmering, I retired to my 
tent ; where, having taken off my shoes, and a few of my garments, 
I lay down on my palliasse, and was not long in falling asleep. I 
believe I slept soundly for some time, thinking and dreaming of 
nothing ; suddenly, however, my sleep became disturbed, and the 
subject of the patterans began to occupy my brain. I imagined 
that I saw Ursula tracing her husband, Launcelot Lovel, by means 
of his patterans ; I imagined that she had considerable difficulty in 
doing so ; that she was occasionally interrupted by parish beadles 
and constables, who asked her whither she was travelling, to whom 
she gave various answers. Presently methought that, as she was 
passing by a farm-yard, two fierce and savage dogs flew at her ; I 
was in great trouble, I remember, and wished to assist her, but 
could not, for though I seemed to see her, I was still at a distance : 
and now it appeared that she had escaped from the dogs, and was 


84 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


proceeding with her cart along a gravelly path which traversed a 
wild moor; I could hear the wheels grating amidst sand and 
gravel. The next moment I was awake, and found myself sitting 
up in my tent ; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas 
caused by the fire ; a feeling of dread came over me, which was 
perhaps natural, on starting suddenly from one’s sleep in that wild, 
lone place ; I half- imagined that some one was nigh the tent ; the 
idea made me rather uncomfortable, and, to dissipate it, I lifted 
up the canvas of the door and peeped out, and, lo ! I had an in- 
distinct view of a tall figure standing by the tent. “Who is that?” 
said I, whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. “It is I,” said 
the voice of Isopel Berners; “you little expected me, I dare say; 
well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you.” “ But I was 
expecting you,” said I, recovering myself, “as you may see by 
the fire and the kettle. I will be with you in a moment.” 

Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, 
I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was 
standing beside her cart, I said : “Just as I was about to retire 
to rest I thought it possible that you might come to-night, and 
got everything in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire 
whilst I lead the donkey and cart to the place where you stay ; I 
will unharness the animal, and presently come and join you.” 
“ I need not trouble you,” said Isopel ; “ I will go myself and see 
after my things.” “We will go together,” said I, “ and then 
return and have some tea.” Isopel made no objection, and in 
about half an hour we had arranged everything at her quarters. 
I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently Isopel rejoined me, 
bringing her stool ; she had divested herself of her bonnet, and 
her hair fell over her shoulders ; she sat down, and I poured out 
the beverage, handing her a cup. “Have you made a long 
journey to-night?” said I. “A very long one,” replied Belle. 
I have come nearly twenty miles since six o’clock.” “ I believe 
I heard you coming in my sleep,” said I ; “ did the dogs above 
bark at you?” “Yes,” said Isopel, “very violently; did you 
think of me in your sleep ? ” “ No,” said I ; “ I was thinking of 

Ursula and something she had told me.” “ When and where 
was that?” said Isopel. “Yesterday evening,” said I, “ beneath 
the dingle hedge.” “Then you were talking with her beneath 
the hedge?” “I was,” said I, “but only upon gypsy matters. 
Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, 

so that you need not think that she and I ” “She and you 

are quite at liberty to sit where you please,” said Isopel. “ How- 
ever, young man,” she continued, dropping her tone, which she had 


1825 .] 


LATE ARRIVAL. 


85 


slightly raised, “ I believe what you said, that you were merely 
talking about gypsy matters, and also what you were going to 
say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular 
acquaintance.” Isopel was now silent for some time. “ What are 
you thinking of?” said I. “I was thinking/’ said Belle, ^^how 
exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything in readiness for 
me, though you did not know that I should come.” “ I had a 
presentiment that you would come,” said I ; “ but you forget that 
I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it was true 
I was then certain that you would come.” I had not forgotten 
your doing so, young man,” said Belle; “but I was beginning to 
think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing but the 
gratification of your own selfish whims.” “ I am very fond of 
having my own way,” said I, “ but utterly selfish I am not, as I 
dare say I shall frequently prove to you. You will often find the 
kettle boiling when you come home.” “ Not heated by you,” said 
Isopel, with a sigh. “ By whom else?” said I ; “surely you are 
not thinking of driving me away? ” “You have as much right 
here as myself,” said Isopel, “as I have told you before; but I 
must be going myself.” “ Well,” said I, “we can go together; 
to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this place.” “Our 
paths must be separate,” said Belle. “Separate,” said I ; “what 
do you mean ? I shan’t let you go alone, I shall go with you ; 
and you know the road is as free to me as to you ; besides, you 
can’t think of parting company with me, considering how much 
you would lose by doing so ; remember that you know scarcely 
anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian 
from me would take you twenty years.” 

Belle faintly smiled. “Come,” said I, “take another cup of 
tea.” Belle took another cup of tea, and yet another; we had 
some indifferent conversation, after which I arose and gave her 
donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked me, shook 
me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I 
returned to mine. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


On the following morning, after breakfasting with Belle, who was 
silent and melancholy, I left her in the dingle, and took a stroll 
amongst the neighbouring lanes. After some time I thought I 
would pay a visit to the landlord of the public-house, whom I had 
not seen since the day when he communicated to me his intention 
of changing his religion. I therefore directed my steps to the 
house, and on entering it found the landlord standing in the 
kitchen. Just then two mean-looking fellows, .who had been 
drinking , at one of the tables, and who appeared to be the only 
customers in the house, got up, brushed past the landlord, and 
saying in a surly tone, we shall pay you some time or other, took 
their departure. “ That’s the w'ay they serve me now,” said the 
landlord with a sigh. “ Do you know those fellows,” I demanded, 
“ since you let them go away in your debt? ” “ I know nothing 

about them,” said the landlord, “ save that they are a couple of 
scamps.” “ Then why did you let them go away without paying 
you ? ” said I. “ I had not the heart to stop them,” said the 
landlord ; and to tell you the truth, everybody serves me so 
now, and I suppose they are right, for a child could flog me.” 
“ Nonsense,” said I ; “ behave more like a man, and with respect 
to those two fellows run after them, I will go with you, and if 
they refuse to pay the reckoning I will help you to shake some 
money out of their clothes.” “ Thank you,” said the landlord ; 
“but as they are gone, let them go on. What they have drank 
is not of much consequence.” “ What is the matter with you? ” 
said I, staring at the landlord, who appeared strangely altered ; 
his features were wild and haggard, his formerly bluff cheeks were 
considerably sunken in, and his figure had lost much of its plump- 
ness. “ Have you changed your religion [already, and has the 
fellow in black commanded you to fast ? ” “I have not changed 
my religion yet,” said the landlord with a kind of shudder ; “ I 
am to change it publicly this day fortnight, and the idea of doing 
so — I do not mind telling you — preys much upon my mind; 


1825.] 


A DOWN PIN. 


87 


moreover, the noise of the thing has got abroad, and everybody is 
laughing at me, and what’s more, coming and drinking my beer, 
and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself like one 
bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part- Confound 
the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him ! yet what can I 
do without him ? The brewer swears that unless I pay him fifty 
pounds within a fortnight he’ll send a distress warrant into the 
house, and take all I have. My poor niece is crying in the room 
above ; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging my- 
self ; and perhaps it’s the best thing I can do, for it’s better to 
hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I’m sure I 
should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat 
religiously inclined, has been talking to me about.” I wish I 
could assist you,” said I, “with money, but that is quite out of 
my power. However, I can give you a piece of advice. Don’t 
change your religion by any means ; you can’t hope to prosper if 
you do ; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with you, let 
him. Everybody would respect you ten times more provided you 
allowed yourself to. be turned into the roads rather than change 
your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it.” “ I 
am half-inclined to take your advice,” said the landlord ; “ only, to 
tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart in me.” 
“ Come into the bar,” said I, “ and let us have something 
together — you need not be afraid of my not paying for what I 
order.” 

We went into the bar-room, where the landlord and I dis- 
cussed between us two bottles of strong ale, which he said were 
part of the last six which he had in his possession. At first he 
wished to drink sherry, but I begged him to do no such thing, 
telling him that sherry would do him no good under the present 
circumstances ; nor, indeed, to the best of my belief, under any, 
it being of all wines the one for which I entertained the most 
contempt. The landlord allowed himself to be dissuaded, and 
after a glass or two of ale, confessed that sherry was a sickly, 
disagreeable drink, and that he had merely been in the habit of 
taking it from an idea he had that it was genteel. Whilst quaffing 
our beverage, he gave me an account of the various mortifications 
to which he had of late been subject, dwelling with particular 
bitterness on the conduct of Hunter, who he said came every 
night and mouthed him, and afterwards went away without pay- 
ing for what he had drank or smoked, in which conduct he was 
closely imitated by a clan of fellows who constantly attended 
him* After spending several hours at the public-house I departed. 


88 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


not forgetting to pay for the two bottles of ale. The landlord, 
before I went, shaking me by the hand, declared that he had now 
made up his mind to stick to his religion at all hazards, the 
more especially as he was convinced he should derive no good by 
giving it up. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


It might be about five in the evening when I reached the gypsy 
encampment. Here I found Mr. Petulengro, Tawno Chikno, 
Sylvester and others in a great bustle, clipping and trimming 
certain ponies and old horses which they had brought with them. 
On inquiring of Jasper the reason of their being so engaged, he 
informed me that they were getting the horses ready for a fair, 
which was to be held on the morrow, at a place some miles 
distant, at which they should endeavour to dispose of them, 
adding : “ Perhaps, brother, you will go with us, provided you 
have nothing better to do ? ” Not having any particular engage- 
ment, I assured him that I should have great pleasure in being 
of the party. It was agreed that we should start early on the 
following morning. Thereupon I descended into the dingle. 
Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling. 
“Were you waiting for me?” I inquired. “Yes/’ said Belle; 
“I thought that you would come, and I waited for you.” “That 
was very kind,” said I. “ Not half so kind,” said she, “ as it was 
of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night, 
when there was scarcely a chance of my coming.” The tea- 
things were brought forward, and we sat down. “ Have you 
been far?” said Belle. “Merely to thaUpublic-house,” said I, 
“ to which you directed me on the second day of our acquaint- 
ance.” “Young men should not make a habit of visiting public- 
houses,” said Belle ; “ they are bad places.” “ They may be so to 
some people,” said I, “ but I do not think the worst public- 
house in England could do me any harm.” “ Perhaps you are so 
bad already,” said Belle, with a smile, “ that it would be im- 
possible to spoil you.” “How dare you catch at my words?” 
said I ; “ come, I will make you pay for doing so — you shall 
have this evening the longest lesson in Armenian which I have 
yet inflicted upon you.” “You may well say inflicted,” said 
Belle, “ but pray spare me. I do not wish to hear anything 
about Armenian, especially this evening.” “Why this evening? ” 
^aid I. Belle made no answer. “I will not spare you,” said 

(89) 


90 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


I ; “ this evening I intend to make you conjugate an Armenian 
verb.” “ Well, be it so,” said Belle ; “ for this evening you shall 
command.” “To command is hramahyel^"' said I. “Ram her 
ill, indeed,” said Belle; “I do not wish to begin with that.” 
“No,” said I, “as we have come to the verbs, we will begin 
regularly ; hramahyel is a verb of the second conjugation. We 
will begin with the first.” “ First of all tell me,” said Belle, 
“ what a verb is ? ” “A part of speech,” said I, “ which, accord- 
ing to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion ; for example, 
I command you, or I hate you.” “I have given you no cause 
to hate me,” said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face. 

“ I was merely giving two examples,” said I, “ and neither 
was directed at you. In those examples, to command and hate 
are verbs. Belle, in Armenian there are four conjugations of 
verbs ; the first ends in a/, the second in ye/, the third in oul, 
and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me? ” 

“ I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill,” said Belle. “ Hold 
your tongue,” said I, “ or you will make me lose my patience.” 
“You have 'already made me nearly lose mine,” said Belle. 
“Let us have no unprofitable interruptions,” said I; “the con- 
jugations of the Armenian verbs are neither so numerous nor so 
difficult as the declensions of the nouns ; hear that, and rejoice. 
Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first 
conjugation, which signifies to rejoice. Come along; hntam, I 
rejoice ; fintas, thou rejoicest ; why don’t you follow. Belle? ” 

“ I am sure I don’t rejoice, whatever you may do,” , said 
Belle. “The chief difficulty. Belle,” said I, “that I find in 
teaching you the Armenian grammar, proceeds from your apply- 
ing to yourself and me every example I give. Rejoice, in this 
instance, is merely an example of an Armenian verb of the first 
conjugation, and has no more to do with your rejoicing than lal, 
which is also a verb of the first conjugation, and which signifies 
to weep, would have to do with your weeping, provided I made 
you conjugate it. Come along; Jintam, I rejoice; hntas, thou 
rejoicest ; hnta, he rejoices ; hntamJz, we rejoice : now, repeat 
those words.” 

“I can’t,” said Belle, “they sound more like the language of 

horses than of human beings. Do you take me for ? ” “ For 

what ? ” said I. Belle was silent. “ Were you going to say 
mare? ” said I. “ Mare ! mare ! by-the-bye, do you know. Belle, 
that mare in old English stands for woman ! and that when we 
call a female an evil mare, the strict meaning of the term is 
Uierely bad womari. So if I w^re to call you a mare without 


DECLARATION IN ARMENIAN, 


91 


1825.] 


prefixing bad, you must not be offended.” ‘‘ But I should 
though,” said Belle. ‘‘ I was merely attempting to make you 
acquainted with a philological fact,” said I. “If mare, which in 
old English, and likewise in vulgar English, signifies a woman, 
sounds the same as mare, which in modern and polite English 
signifies a female horse, I can’t help it. There is no such con- 
fusion of sounds in Armenian, not, at least, in the same instance. 
Belle, in Armenian^ woman is ghin, the same word, by-the-bye, 
as our queen, whereas mare is madagh tzi^ which signifies a 
female horse ; and perhaps you will permit me to add, that a 
hard-mouthed jade is, in Armenian, madagh tzi hsdierah.” 

“ 1 can’t bear this much longer,” said Belle. “ Keep yourself 
quiet,” said I ; “ I wish to be gentle with you ; and to convince 
you, we will skip hntal^ and also for the present verbs of the first 
conjugation and proceed to the second. Belle, I will now select 
for you to conjugate the prettiest verb in Armenian ; not only of 
the second, but also of all the four conjugations; that verb is 
sirid. Here is the present tense : siriem^ siries, sirhj siriemk, sirhk, 
sirien. You observe that it runs on just in the same manner as 
hntal, save and except that the e is substituted for a ; and it will be as 
well to tell you that almost the only difference between the second, 
third and fourth conjugations, and the first, is the substituting in 
the present, preterite and other tenses, e or ou or i for a ; so you 
see that the Armenian verbs are by no means difficult. Come on. 
Belle, and say siriemk Belle hesitated. “ Pray oblige me. Belle, 
by saying siriem!" Belle still appeared to hesitate. “You must 
admit. Belle, that it is much softer than hntam." “ It is so,” 
said Belle; “and to oblige you I will S 2 iy siriem.'' “Very well 
indeed, Belle,” said I. “No vartabied, or doctor, could have 
pronounced it better ; and now, to show you how verbs act upon 
pronouns in Armenian, I will say sirieni zkiez. Please to repeat 
siriem zkiez ! ” “ Siriem zkiez ! ” said Belle ; “ that last word is 

very hard to say.” “Sorry that you think so, Belle,” said I. 
“Now please to say sirid zis” Belle did so. “Exceedingly 
well,” said I. “Now say, yerani thl sireir zisT .“ Yerani thb 
sirdr zis,” said Belle. “ Capital ! ” said I ; “ you have now said, 
I love you — love me — ah ! would that you would love me ! ” 

“ And I have said all these things ? ” said Belle. “ Yes,” said 
I; “ you have said them in Armenian.” “ I would have said them 
in no language that I understood,” said Belle ; “and it was very 
wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance, and make me 
say such things.” “ Why so ? ” said I ; “if you said them, I said 
them too,” “ You did so,” said Belle ; “ but I believe you were 


92 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


merely bantering and jeering.” “ As I told you before, Belle,” 
said I, “ the chief difficulty which I find in teaching you Armen- 
ian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and me 
every example I give.” “Then you meant nothing after all,” 
said Belle, raising her voice. “ Let us proceed,” said I ; “ sirietsi, 
I loved,” “You never loved any one but yourself,” said Belle ; 

“and what’s more ” Sirietsits, I will love,” said I; 

siriesisies, thou wilt love.” “Never one so, thoroughly heart- 
less,” said Belle. “I tell you what, Belle, you are becoming 
intolerable, but we will change the verb ; or rather I will now 
proceed to tell you here, that some of the Armenian conjugations 
have their anomalies ; one species of these I wish to bring before 
your notice. As old Villotte says — from whose work I first con- 
trived to pick up the rudiments of Armenian — ^ Est verborum 

transitivorum., quorum infinitivus ’ but I forgot, you don’t 

understand Latin. He says there are certain transitive verbs, 
whose infinitive is in outsaniel ; the preterite in outsi ; the impera- 
tive in oue\ for example — parghatsoutsanmn, I irritate ” 

“You do, you do,” said Belle; “and it will be better for both 
of us, if you leave off doing so.” 

“ You would hardly believe. Belle,” said I, “ that the Armen- 
ian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it 
is ; for example, that word parghatsoutsaniem is evidently derived 
from the same root as feargaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to 
say I vex.” 

“ You do, indeed,” said Belle, sobbing. 

“ But how do you account for it? ” 

“O man, man!” said Belle, bursting into tears, “for what 
purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless 
it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learn- 
ing, do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can 
scarcely read or write. Oh, leave off your nonsense ; yet I know 
you will not do so, for it is the breath of your nostrils I I could 
have wished we shoud have parted in kindness, but you will not 
permit it. I have deserved better at your hands than such treat- 
ment. The whole time we have kept company together in this 
place, I have scarcely had one kind word from you, but the 

strangest ” and here the voice of Belle was drowned in her 

sobs. 

“ I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle,” said I. “I 
really have given you no cause to be so unhappy ; surely teaching 
you a little Armenian was a very innocent kind of diversion.” 

“ Yes, but you went on so long, and in such a strange way. 


1825.] 


AIR YEW GHINJ 


93 


and made me repeat such strange examples, as you call them, 
that I could not bear it.” 

“ Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it’s my way ; and I have 
dealt with you just as I would with ” 

“A hard-mouthed jade,” said Belle, “and you practising 
your horse-witchery upon her. I have been of an unsubdued 
spirit, I acknowledge, but I was always kind to you ; and if you 
have made me cry, it’s a poor thing to boast of.” 

“ Boast of ! ” said I ; “ a pretty thing indeed to boast of ; I had 
no idea of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon ; what 
more can I do? Come, cheer up, Belle. You were talking of 
parting ; don’t let us part, but depart, and that together.” 

“ Our ways lie different,” said Belle. 

“ I don’t see why they should,” said I. “ Come, let us be off 
to America together.” 

“To America together?” said Belle, looking full at me. 

“Yes,” said I; “where we will settle down in some forest, 
and conjugate the verb siriel conjugally.” 

“Conjugally?” said Belle. 

“ Yes,” said I ; “as man and wife in America, air yew ghin ”. 

“ You are jesting, as usual,” said Belle. 

“ Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let 
us be off to America ; and leave priests, humbug, learning and 
languages behind us.” 

“ I don’t think you are jesting,” said Belle ; “ but I can hardly 
entertain your offers ; however, young man, I thank you.” 

“ You had better make up your mind, at once,” said I, “ and 
let us be off. I shan’t make a bad husband, I assure you. 
Perhaps you think I am not worthy of you ? To convince you. 
Belle, that I am, I am ready to try a fall with you this moment 
upon the grass. Brynhilda, the valkyrie, swore that no one should 
marry her who could not fling her down. Perhaps you have 
done the same. The man who eventually married her, got a friend 
of his, who was called Sigurd, the serpent-killer, to wrestle with 
her, disguising him in his own armour. Sigurd flung her down, 
and won her for his friend, though he loved her himself. I shall 
not use a similar deceit, nor employ Jasper Petulengro to per- 
sonate me — so get up. Belle, and I will do my best to fling you 
down.” 

“ I require no such thing of you, or anybody,” said Belle ; 
“ you are beginning to look rather wild.” 

“ I every now and then do,” said I ; “ come, Belle, what do 
you say ? ” 


94 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ I will say nothing at present on the subject,” said Belle ; ** I 
must have time to consider.” 

“Just as you please,” said I ; “ to-morrow I go to a fair with 
Mr. Petulengro, perhaps you will consider whilst I am away. 
“Come, Belle, let us have some more tea. I wonder whether 
we shall be able to procure tea as good as this in the American 
forest.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


It was about the dawn of day when I was awakened by the voice 
of Mr. Petulengro shouting from the top of the dingle, and bidding 
me get up. I arose instantly, and dressed myself for the expedi- 
tion to the fair. On leaving my tent, I was surprised to observe 
Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to her own little encamp- 
ment. “Dear me,” said I, “ I little expected to find you up so 
early. I suppose Jasper’s call awakened you, as it did me.” “ I 
merely lay down in my things,” said Belle, “ and have not slept 
during the night.” “ And why did you not take off your things 
and go to sleep?” said I. “I did not undress,” said Belle, 
“because I wished to be in readiness to bid you farewell when 
you departed; and as for sleeping, I could not.” “Well, God 
bless you ! ” said I, taking Belle by the hand. Belle made no 
answer, and I observed that her hand was very cold. “ What is 
the matter with you ? ” said I, looking her in the face. Belle 
looked at me for a moment in the eyes, and then cast down her 
own — her features were very pale. “You are really unwell,” 
said I, “ I had better not go to the fair, but stay here, and take 
care of you.” “No,” said Belle, “pray go, I am not unwell.” 
“Then go to your tent,” said I, “and do not endanger your 
health by standing abroad in the raw morning air. God bless 
you. Belle, I shall be home to-night, by which time I expect you 
will have made up your mind ; if not, another lesson in Armenian, 
however late the hour be.” I then wrung Belle’s hand, and 
ascended to the plain above. 

I found the Romany party waiting for me, and everything in 
readiness for departing. Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno were 
mounted on two old horses. The rest, who intended to go to the 
fair, amongst whom were two or three women, were on foot. On 
arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle. 
Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morn- 
ing sun shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my 
hand towards her. She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned 
away, and never saw Isopel Berners again. 

My companions and myself proceeded on our way. In about 

(9S) 


g6 


THE kOMAHY RYE. 


[i825.- 


two hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held. 
After breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken 
stone wall,- we drove our animals to the fair. The fair was a 
common cattle and horse fair : there was little merriment going 
on, but there was no lack of business. By about two o’clock in 
the afternoon, Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of 
their animals at what they conceived very fair prices — they were 
all in high spirits, and Jasper proposed to adjourn to a public- . 
house. As we were proceeding to one, a very fine horse, led by 
a jockey, made its appearance on the ground. Mr. Petulengro 
stopped short, and looked at it steadfastly : “ Fino covar dove 
odoy sas miro — a fine thing were that if it were but mine ! ” he 
exclaimed. “ If you covet it,” said I, why do you not purchase 
it?” ^^We low gyptians never buy animals of that description;, 
if we did we could never sell them, and most likely should be had 
up as horse-stealers.” ^^Then why did you say just now, 'It were 
a fine thing if it were but yours ? ’ ” said I. “ We gyptians always 
say so when we see anything that we admire. An animal like 
that is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand 
gentleman like yourself. I say, brother, do you buy that horse ! ” 
“How should I buy the horse, you foolish person?” said I. 
“Buy the horse, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “if you have 
not the money I can lend it you, though I be of lower Egypt.” 
“You talk nonsense,” said I; “however, I wish you would 
ask the man the price of it.” Mr. Petulengro, going up to the 
jockey, inquired the price of the horse. The man, looking at him 
scornfully, made no reply. “Young man,” said I, going up to 
the jockey, “do me the favour to tell me the price of that horse, 
as I suppose it is to sell.” The jockey, who was a surly-looking 
man, of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, then, after some 
hesitation, said, laconically, “Seventy”. “Thank you,” said I, 
and turned away. “ Buy that horse,” said Mr. Petulengro, coming 
after me ; “ the dook tells me that in less than three months he 
will be sold for twice seventy.” “ I will have nothing to do with 
him,” said I ; “ besides, Jasper, I don’t like his tail. Did you 
observe what a mean, scrubby tail he has ? ” “ What a fool you 
are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro ; that very tail of his shows his 
breeding. No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail — ’tis 
your scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers. Did you 
ever hear of Syntax, brother ? That tail of his puts me in mind 
of Syntax. Well, I say nothing more, have your own way- — all 
I wonder at is, that a horse like him was ever brought to such 
a fair of dog cattle as this.” 


1825.] 


THE FAIR. 


97 


We then made the best of our way to a public-house, where 
we had some refreshment. I then proposed returning to the 
encampment, but Mr. Petulengro declined, and remained, drinking 
with his companions till about six o’clock in the evening, when 
various jockeys from the fair came in. After some conversation 
a jockey proposed a game of cards ; and in a little time, Mr. 
Petulengro and another gypsy sat down to play a game of cards 
with two of the jockeys. 

Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived 
a suspicion that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and 
his companion. I therefore called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave 
him a hint to that effect. Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of 
thanking me, told me to mind my own bread and butter, and 
forthwith returned to his game. I continued watching the players 
for some hours. The gypsies lost considerably, and I saw clearly 
that the jockeys were cheating them most confoundedly. I there- 
fore once more called Mr. Petulengro aside, and told him that 
the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him to return to the 
encampment. Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time somewhat 
the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, 
and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his 
brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself. In- 
censed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words had 
received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few 
articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone. It was a dark 
night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a 
fire from the depths of the dingle ; my heart beat with fond anti- 
cipation of a welcome. Isopel Berners is waiting for me,” said 
I, and the first word that I shall hear from her lips is that she 
has made up her mind. We shall go to America, and be so happy 
together.” On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw 
seated near the fire, beside which stood the kettle simmering, not 
Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners 
when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and 
have the kettle boiling against my arrival. Startled at these words, 

I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she was 
gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, 
about two hours after I departed ; but where she was gone she, 
the girl, did not know. I then asked whether she had left no 
message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had 
merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the 
same time, sixpence into her hand. ^^Very strange,” thought I; 
then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no 

7 


98 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could 
be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel. ''Does she 
mean to return?” thought I to myself. "Surely she means to 
return,” Hope replied, " or she would not have gone away without 
leaving any message ” ; " and yet she could scarcely mean to 
return, muttered Foreboding, or she would assuredly have left 
some message with the girl.” I then thought to myself what a 
hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to 
assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of 
the woman of my choice. "Well, after all,” thought I, "I can 
scarcely be disappointed ; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester 
had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, 
who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand 
of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be. 
Husbands do not grow upon hedgerows ; she is merely gone after 
a little business and will return to-morrow.” 

Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I 
retired to my tent, and went to sleep. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the 
following day. Isopel Berners did not return ; but Mr. Petu- 
lengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the 
morning. When I saw him, which was about midday, I found 
him with his face bruised and swelled. It appeared that, some 
time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys 
with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his 
companion ; a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight 
between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted 
some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually 
came off victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in con- 
junction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven 
pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour ; before 
night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of 
mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologised 
for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he 
was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a 
friend for giving him good advice. 

Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. 
Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the 
day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of 
catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle, and 
at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to 
the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard 
the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. Once at mid- 
night, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly 
started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels. 
I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking 
against stones was certainly plain enough. “ She comes at last,” 
thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had 
been removed from my breast ; “ here she comes at last, now, 
how shall I receive her? Oh,” thought I, “I will receive her 
rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her 
— that’s the way to manage these women.” The next moment 

(99) 


L, of C. 


100 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to pro- 
ceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. 
Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the 
dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was 
going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much 
larger than the cart of Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the 
stamping of a horse’s hoof at a lumbering trot. Those only 
whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then 
suddenly dashed down, can imagine what I felt at that moment ; 
and yet when I returned to my lonely tent, and lay down on my 
hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I 
was then undergoing I had fully merited, from the unkind manner 
in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief moment 
I supposed that she had returned. 

It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I 
forget not, from the time of Isopel’s departure, that, as I was 
seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my 
breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above — 
apparently that of a person descending — exclaim : “ Here’s a 
strange place to bring a letter to ” ; and presently an old woman, 
with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern 
bag, made her appearance, and stood before me. 

“Well, if I ever !” said she, as she looked about her. “ My 
good gentlewoman,” said I, “pray what may you please to 
want?” “Gentlewoman!” said the old dame, “ please to want 
— well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate. It is true, civil 
words cost nothing ; nevertheless, we do not always get them. 
What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in 
this place; perhaps you be he?” “What’s the name on the 
letter?” said I, getting up, and going to her. “There is no 
name upon it,” said she, taking a letter out of her scrip, and 
looking at it. “ It is directed to the young man in Mumpers’ 
Dingle.” “Then it is for me, I make no doubt,” said I, stretch- 
ing out my hand to take it. “ Please to pay me ninepence first,” 
said the old woman. “ However,” said she, after a moment’s 
thought, “civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, 
should meet with some return. Here’s the letter, young man, 
and I hope you will pay for it ; for if you do not I must pay the 
postage myself.” “You are the postwoman, I suppose,” said I, 
as I took the letter. “ I am the postman’s mother,” said the old 
woman ; “but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I 
can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he 
is afraid to come himself.” “ You say the postage is ninepence,” 


1825.] THE POSTWOMAN, lol 


said I ; “ here’s a shilling.” “ Well, I call that honourable,” said 
the old woman, taking the shilling, and putting it into her 
pocket ; “ here's your change, young man,” said she, offering 
me threepence. “ Pray keep that for yourself," said I ; “ you 
deserve it for your trouble.” “ Well, I call that genteel,” said the 
old woman ; “and as one good turn deserves another, since you 
look as if you couldn’t read, I will read your letter for you. Let’s 
see it ; it's from some young woman or other, I dare say." 
“Thank you,” said I, “but 1 can read.” “All the better for 
you,” said the old woman ; “ your being able to read will fre- 
quently save you a penny, for that's the charge I generally make 
for reading letters ; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I 
should have charged you nothing. Well, if you can read, why 
don’t you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between 
your finger and thumb?" “I am in no hurry to open it,” said 
I, with a sigh. The old woman looked at me for a moment. 
“Well, young man,” said she, “ there are some — especially those 
who can read — who don’t like to open their letters when anybody 
is by, more especially when they come from young women. 
Well, I won’t intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your 
letter. I wish it may contain something pleasant. God bless 
you,” and with these words she departed. 

I sat down on my stone with my letter in my hand. I knew 
perfectly well that it could have come from no other person than 
Isopel Berners ; but what did the letter contain ? I guessed toler- 
ably well what its purport was — an eternal farewell, yet I was 
afraid to open the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed. 
There I sat with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as 
possible. At length I glanced at the direction, which was written 
in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, 
to the young man in “ Mumpers’ Dingle,” with the addition, near 

, in the county of Suddenly the idea occurred to me, 

that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell, and 
that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. Could 
it be so? “Alas! no,” presently said Foreboding. At last I 
became ashamed of my weakness. The letter must be opened 
sooner or later. Why not at once ? So as the bather who, for a 
considerable time has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take 
the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost 
before I was aware. I had no sooner done so than a paper fell out. 
I examined it ; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair. “ This is 
no good sign," said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, 
and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows : — 


102 


. THE kOMAMY RYE. 


[1825. 


“to the young jSian in mumpers’ dingle. 

“Sir, — I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they 
will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in 
much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they 
were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at 
other times, and most often, very low. I am at a sea-port, and 
am just going on shipboard ; and when you get these I shall be 
on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving 
my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again. 

“And now, young man, I will, in the’ first place, say something 
about the manner in which I quitted you. It must have seemed 
somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any 
leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going ; but I did 
not do so without considerable reflection. I was afraid that I 
should not be able to support a leave-taking ; and as you had said 
that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best 
not to tell you at all ; for I did not think it advisable that you 
should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute. 

“ In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer 
of wedlock which you made me ; perhaps, young man, had you 
made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have 
accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, 
and behaving in a very strange manner, till I could stand your 
conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old 
England, which last step I had been long thinking about; so 
when you made your offer at last, everything was arranged — my 
cart and donkey engaged to be sold — and the greater part of my 
things disposed of. However, young man, when you did make 
it, I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it ; at last, 
however, after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave 
you for ever, because, for some time past, t had become almost 
convinced, that, though with a wonderful deal of learning, and 
exceedingly shrewd in some things, you were — pray don’t be 
offended — at the root mad ! and though mad people, I have been 
told, sometimes make very good husbands, I was unwilling that 
your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle Berners, the 
workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity ; for there is no 
concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse ; notwith- 
standing that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as 
the best ; you having yourself told me that my name is a noble 
name, and once, if I mistake not, that it was the same word as 
baron, which is the same thing as bear ; and that to be called in 
old times a bear was considered a great compliment— the bear 


THE LETTER. 


103 


1825.] 


being a mighty strong animal, on which account our forefathers 
called all their great fighting-men barons, which is the same as 
bears. 

“ However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, 
many thanks to you, young man, from poor Belle, for the honour 
you did her in making that same offer ; for, after all, it is an honour 
to receive an honourable offer, which she could see clearly 
yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it ; but, on the contrary, 
entire sincerity. She assures you that she shall always bear it and- 
yourself in mind, whether on land or water ; and as a proof of the 
good-will she bears to you, she sends you a lock of the hair which 
she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were 
pleased to ^call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a 
compliment, even as the old people meant to pass a compliment 
to their great folks, when they called them bears ; though she 
cannot help thinking that they might have found an animal as 
strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, to call their great 
folks after : even as she thinks yourself, amongst your great store 
of words, might have found something a little more genteel to call 
her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, is rather 
a coarse and common kind of article. 

“ And as another proof of the goodwill she bears to you, she 
sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth 
all the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax. 

Fear God, and take your own part. There’s Bible in that, 
young man ; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his 
own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see 
how David feared God, and took his own part against all the 
bloody enemies which surrounded him — so fear God, young man, 
and never give in ! The world can bully, and is fond, provided it 
sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling 
him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him : but 
the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no 
sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight its 
best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him 
afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill-treat you, young 
man, say, ‘ Lord have mercy upon me ! ’ and then tip them Long 
Melford, to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing com- 
parable for shortness all the world over; and these last words, 
young man, are the last you will ever have from her who is never- 
theless, 

“ Your affectionate female servant, 

“ IsoPEL Berners.” 


104 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding 
it in my hand. The daydream, in which I had been a little time 
before indulging, of marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to 
America, and having by her a large progeny, who were to assist 
me in felling trees, cultivating the soil, and who would take care 
of me when I was old, was now thoroughly dispelled. Isopel had 
deserted me, and was gone to America by herself, where, perhaps, 
she would marry some other person, and would bear him a 
progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped 
my progeny by her would do for me. Then the thought came 
into my head that though she was gone, I might follow her to 
America, but then I thought that if I did I might not find her ; 
America was a very large place, and I did not know the port 
to which she was bound ; but I could follow her to the port 
from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover the port 
to which she was bound ; but then I did not even know the port 
from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter 
from any place. Suddenly it occurred to me that the post-mark 
on the letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith 
looked at the back of the letter, and in the post-mark read the 
name of a well-known and not very distant sea-port. I then knew 
with tolerable certainty the port where she had embarked, and I 
almost determined to follow her, but I almost instantly determined 
to do no such thing. Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I 
would not follow her. Perhaps,” whispered Pride, “ if I overtook 
her, she would only despise me for running after her; ” and it 
also told me pretty roundly, that, provided I ran after her, whether 
I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself. So I 
determined not to follow Isopel Berners. I took her lock of hair, 
and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and 
carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both for ever, but I 
determined not to follow her. Two or three times, however, 
during the day, I wavered in my determination, and was again 
and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time 
the temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and 
sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his 
tent ; Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had 
received in the morning. “ Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?” 
said he. I told him it was. “Is she coming back, brother?” 
“ Never,” said I ; “ she is gone to America, and has deserted me.” 
“ I always knew that you two were never destined for each other,” 
said he. “How did you know that?” I inquired. “ The dook 
told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller.” 


1825.] 


‘‘A POOR SEER!** 


m 


“Well,” said I, “ if I had gone with her to America, as I was 
thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller." “You 
are to travel in another direction, brother," said he. “ I wish you 
would tell me all about my future wanderings,” said I. “I can’t, 
brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ there’s a power of clouds before 
my eye." “You are a poor seer, after all,” said I ; and getting 
up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to 
my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agi- 
tated by apprehension, nor agonised by expectation, I was soon 
buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for 
several nights. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke. At 
first I was almost unconscious of what had occurred on the pre- 
ceding day; recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I 
felt a deep melancholy coming over me, but perfectly aware that 
no advantage could be derived from the indulgence of such a 
feeling, I sprang up, prepared my breakfast, which I ate with a 
tolerable appetite, and then left the dingle, and betook myself to 
the gypsy encampment, where I entered into discourse with 
various Romanies, both male and female. After some time, 
feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit 
to the landlord of the public-house* From the position of his 
affairs when I had last visited him, I entertained rather gloomy 
ideas with respect to his present circumstances. I imagined that 
I should either find him alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched 
pipe, or in company with some surly bailiff or his follower, whom 
his friend the brewer had sent into the house in order to take 
possession of his effects. 

Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipa- 
tions could have presented itself to my view than what I saw 
about one o’clock in the afternoon, when I entered the house. 
I had come, though somewhat in want of consolation myself, to 
offer any consolation which was at my command to my acquaint- 
ance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go to 
a house with “drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids,” 
I felt rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was 
necessary. The house was thronged with company ; the cries for 
ale and porter, hot brandy and water, cold gin and water, were 
numerous ; moreover, no desire to receive and not to pay for the 
landlord’s liquids was manifested — on the contrary, everybody 
seemed disposed to play the most honourable part : “ Landlord, 
here’s the money for this glass of brandy and water — do me the 
favour to take it ; all right, remember I have paid you.” “ Land- 
lord, here’s the money for the pint of half-and-half — fourpence 
halfpenny, ain’t it? — here’s sixpence; keep the change — confound 
the change ! ” The landlord, assisted by his niece, bustled 







1825.] 


VP IN THE WORLD. 


toy 


about, his brow erect, his cheeks plumped out, and all his 
features exhibiting a kind of ‘ surly satisfaction. Wherever he 
moved, marks of the most cordial amity were shown him, hands 
were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect, admira- 
tion, nay, almost of adoration, wanting. I observed one fellow, 
as the landlord advanced, take the pipe out of his mouth, and 
gaze upon .him with a kind of grin of wonder, probably much the 
same as his ancestor, the Saxon lout of old, put on when he saw 
his idol Thur, dressed in a new kirtle. To avoid the press, I got 
into a corner, where on a couple of chairs sat two respectable- 
looking individuals, whether farmers or sow-gelders, I know not, 
but highly respectable-looking, who were discoursing about the 
landlord. “Such another,” said one, “you will not find in a 
summer’s day.” “ No, nor in the whole of England,” said the 
other. “Tom of Hopton,” said the first: “ah! Tom of Hopton,” 
echoed the ocher ; “ the man who could beat Tom of Hopton 
could beat the world.” “I glory in him,” said the first. “So 
do I,” said the second; “I’ll back him against the world. Let 

me hear any one say anything against him, and if I don’t ” 

then, looking at me, he added: “Have you anything to say 
against him, young man?” “Not a word,” said I, “save that 
he regularly puts me out.” “ He’ll put any one out,” said the 
man, “ any one out of conceit with himself; ” then, lifting a mug 
to his mouth, he added, with a hiccough, “ I drink his health.” 
Presently the landlord, as he moved about, observing me, stopped 
short: “Ah!” said he, “are you here? I am glad to see you, 
come this way.” “ Stand back,” said he to his company, as I 
followed him to the bar, “stand back for me and this gentleman.” 
Two or three young fellows were in the bar, seemingly sporting 
yokels, drinking sherry and smoking. “ Come, gentlemen,” said 
the landlord, “ clear the bar, I must have a clear bar for me and 
my friend here.” “Landlord, what will you take,” said one, “ a 

glass of sherry? I know you like it.” “ sherry and you too,” 

said the landlord, “I want neither sherry nor yourself; didn’t you 
hear what I told you? ” “All right, old fellow,” said the other, 
shaking the landlord by the hand, “all right, don’t wish to intrude 
— but I suppose when you and your friend have done, I may 
come in again ; ” then, with “a sarvant, sir,” to me, he took him- 
self into the kitchen, followed by the rest of the sporting yokels. 

Thereupon the landlord, taking a bottle of ale from a basket, 
uncorked it, and pouring the contents into two large glasses, 
handed me one, and motioning me to sit down, placed himself 
by me ; then, emptying his own glass at a draught, he gave a kind 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


io8 


[1825- 


of grunt of satisfaction, and fixing his eyes upon the opposite side 
of the bar, remained motionless, without saying a word, buried 
apparently in important cogitations. With respect to myself, I 
swallowed my ale more leisurely, and was about to address my 
friend, when his niece, coming into the bar, said that more and 
more customers were arriving, and how she should supply their 
wants she did not know, unless her uncle would get up and help 
her. 

“ The customers ! ” said the landlord, “ let the scoundrels 
wait till you have time to serve them, or till I have leisure to see 
after them.” “ The kitchen won’t contain half of them,” said 
his niece. “ Then let them sit out abroad,” said the landlord. 
“But there are not benches enough, uncle,” said the niece. 
“Then let them stand or sit on the ground,” said the uncle, 
“ what care I ; I’ll let them know that the man who beat Tom of 
Hopton stands as well again on his legs as ever.” Then opening 
a side door which led from the bar into the back yard, he 
beckoned me to follow him. “You treat your customers in 
rather a cavalier manner,” said I, when we were alone together 
in the yard. 

“ Don’t I ? ” said the landlord ; “ and I’ll treat them more so 
yet ; now I have got the whiphand of the rascals I intend to keep it. 
I daresay you are a bit surprised with regard to the change which 
has come over things since you were last here. I’ll tell you how 
it happened. You remember in what a desperate condition you 
found me, thinking of changing my religion, selling my soul to 
the man in black, and then gding and hanging myself like Pontius 
Pilate ; and I daresay you can’t have forgotten how you gave me 
good advice, made me drink ale, and give up sherry. Well, after 
you were gone, I felt all the better for your talk, and what you 
had made me drink, and it was a mercy that I did feel better ; 
for my niece was gone out, poor thing, and I was left alone in 
the house, without a soul to look at, or to keep me from doing 
myself a mischief in case I was so inclined. Well, things wore 
on in this way till it grew dusk, when in came that blackguard 
Hunter with his train to drink at my expense, and to insult me 
as usual ; there were more than a dozen of them, and a pretty set 
they looked. Well, they ordered about in a very free and easy 
manner for upwards of an hour and a half, occasionally sneering 
and jeering at me, as they had been in the habit of doing for 
some time past ; so, as I said before, things wore on, and other 
customers came in, who, though they did not belong to Hunter’s 
gang, also passed off their jokes upon me ; for, as you perhaps 


1825.] 


THB LANDLORD’S LUCK. 


109 


know, we English are a set of low hounds, who will always take 
part with the many by way of making ourselves safe, and currying 
favour with the stronger side. I said little or nothing, for my 
spirits had again become very low, and I was verily scared and 
afraid. All of a sudden I thought of the ale which I had drank 
in the morning, and of the good it did me then, so I went into 
the bar, opened another bottle, took a glass, and felt better; so I 
took another, and feeling better still, I went back into the kitchen, 
just as Hunter and his crew were about leaving. ‘Mr. Hunter,’ 
said I, ‘ you and your people will please to pay me for what you 
have had ? ’ ‘ What do you mean by my people ? ’ said he, with 

an oath. ‘Ah, what do mean by calling us his people? ’ said the 
clan. ‘We are nobody’s people;’ and then there was a pretty 
load of abuse, and threatening to serve me out. ‘ Well,’ said I, 
‘ I was perhaps wrong to call them your people, and beg your 
pardon and theirs. And now you will please to pay me for what 
you have had yourself, and afterwards I can settle with them.’ 
‘I shall pay you when I think fit,’ said Hunter. ‘Yes/ said the 
rest, ‘ and so shall we. We shall pay you when we think fit.’ 
‘ I tell you what,’ said Hunter, ‘ I conceives I do such an 
old fool as you an honour when I comes into his house and 
drinks his beer, and goes away without paying for it ; ’ and 
then there was a roar of laughter from everybody, and almost 
all said the same thing. ‘Now, do you please to pay me, Mr. 
Hunter?’ said I. ‘Pay you!’ said Hunter; ‘pay you! Yes, 
here’s the pay ; ’ and thereupon he '[held out his thumb, twirling 
it round till it just touched my nose. I can’t tell you what I felt 
that moment ; a kind of madhouse thrill came upon me, and all 
I know is, that I bent back as far as I could, then lunging out, 
struck him under the ear, sending him reeling two or three yards, 
when he fell on the floor. I wish you had but seen how my com- 
pany looked at me and at each other. One or two of the clan 
went to raise Hunter, and get him to fight, but it was no go ; 
though he was not killed, he had had enough for that evening. 
Oh, I wish you had seen my customers ; those who did not 
belong to the clan, but who had taken part with them, and helped 
to jeer and flout me, now came and shook me by the hand, 
wishing me joy, and saying as how ‘ I was a brave fellow, and had 
served the bully right ! ’ As for the clan, they all said Hunter 
was bound to do me justice ; so they made him pay me what he 
owed for himself, and the reckoning of those among them who 
said they had no money. Two or three of them then led him 
away, while the rest stayed behind, and flattered me, and wor- 


no 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


shipped me, and called Hunter all kinds of dogs’ names. What 
do you think of that ? ” 

“ Why,” said I, “it makes good what I read in a letter which 
I received yesterday. It is just the way of the world.” 

“A’n’t it,” said the landlord. “Well, that a’n’t all; let me 
go on. Good fortune never yet came alone. In about an hour 
comes home my poor niece, almost in high sterricks with joy, 

smiling and sobbing. She had been to the clergyman of M , 

the great preacher, to whose Church she was in the habit of going, 
and to whose daughters she was well known ; and to him she told 
a lamentable tale about my distresses, and about the snares which 
had been laid for my soul ; and so well did she plead my cause, 
and so strong did the young ladies back all she said, that the good 
clergyman promised to stand my friend, and to lend me sufficient 
money to satisfy the brewer, and to get my soul out of the snares 
of the man in black ; and sure enough the next morning the two 
young ladies brought me the fifty pounds, which I forthwith 
carried to the brewer, who was monstrously civil, saying that he 
hoped any little misunderstanding we had had would not prevent 
our being good friends in future. That a’n’t all ; the people of 
the neighbouring county hearing as if by art witchcraft that I had 
licked Hunter, and was on good terms with the brewer, forthwith 
began to come in crowds to look at me, pay me homage, and be 
my customers. Moreover, fifty scoundrels who owed me money, 
and who would have seen me starve rather than help me as long as 
they considered me a down pin, remembered their debts, and 
came and paid me more than they owed. That a’n’t all; the 
brewer being about to establish a stage-coach and three, to run 
across the country, says it shall stop and change horses at my 
house, and the passengers breakfast and sup as it goes and 
returns. He wishes me — whom he calls the best man in England 
— to give his son lessons in boxing, which he says he considers a 
fine manly English art, and a great defence against Popery — not- 
withstanding that only a month ago, when he considered me a 
down pin, he was in the habit of railing against it as a blackguard 
practice, and against me as a blackguard for following it ; so I am 
going to commence with young hopeful to-morrow.” 

“ I really cannot help congratulating you on your good 
fortune,” said I. 

“ That a’n’t all,” said the landlord. This very morning the 
folks of our parish made me churchwarden, which they would no 
more have done a month ago, when they considered me a down 
pin, than they ” 


1825.] 


A PROPOSITION. 


Ill 


“ Mercy upon us ! ” said I, “ if fortune pours in upon you in 
this manner, who knows but that within a year they may make 
you justice of the peace ? ” 

“Who knows, indeed!” said the landlord. “Well, I will 
prove myself worthy of my good luck by showing the grateful 
mind — not to those who would be kind to me now, but to those 
who were, when the days were rather gloomy. My customers 
shall have abundance of rough language, but I’ll knock any one 
down who says anything against the. clergyman who lent me the 
fifty pounds, or against the Church of England, of which he is 
parson and I am churchwarden. I am also ready to do anything 
in reason for him who paid me for the ale he drank, when I 
shouldn’t have had the heart to collar him for the money had he 
refused to pay ; who never jeered or flouted me like the rest of my 
customers when I was a down pin, and though he refused to fight 
cross /or me was never cross with me, but listened to all I had 
to say, and gave me all kinds of good advice. Now who do you 
think I mean by this last? why, who but yourself — who on earth 
but yourself? The parson is a good man and a great preacher, 
and I’ll knock anybody down who says to the contrary ; and I 
mention him first, because why, he’s a gentleman, and you a 
tinker. But I am by no means sure you are not the best friend of 
the two ; for I doubt, do you see, whether I should have had the 
fifty pounds but for you. You persuaded me to give up that silly 
drink they call sherry, and drink ale ; and what was it but drink- 
ing ale which gave me courage to knock down that fellow Hunter 
— and knocking him down was, I verily believe, the turning point 
of my disorder. God don’t love them who won’t strike out for 
themselves ; and as far as I can calculate with respect to time, it 
was just the moment after I had knocked down Hunter, that the 
parson consented to lend me the money, and everything began to 
grow civil to me. So, dash my buttons if I show the ungrateful 
mind to you 1 I don’t offer to knock anybody down for you, be- 
cause why — I daresay you can knock a body down yourself ; but 
I’ll offer something more to the purpose ; as my business is 
wonderfully on the increase, I shall want somebody to help 
me in serving my customers, and keeping them in order. If 
you choose to come and serve for your board, and what they’ll 
give you, give me your fist ; or if you like ten shillings a week 
better than their sixpences and ha’pence, only say so — though, 
to be open with you, I believe you would make twice ten 
shillings out of them — the sneaking, fawning, curry-favouring 
humbugs ! ” 


II2 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“I am much obliged to you,” said I, “for your handsome 
offer, which, however, I am obliged to decline.” 

“ Why so ? ” said the landlord. 

“I am not fit for service,” said I ; “ moreover, I am about to 
leave this part of the country.” As I spoke a horse neighed in 
the stable. “ What horse is that ? ” said I. 

“ It belongs to a cousin of mine, who put it into my hands 
yesterday, in the hopes that I might get rid of it for him, though 
he would no more have done so a week ago, when he considered me 
a down pin^ than he would have given the horse away. Are you 
fond of horses ? ” 

“ Very much,” said I. 

“ Then come and look at it.” He led me into the stable, 
where, in a stall, stood a noble-looking animal. 

“ Dear me,” said I, “ I saw this horse at fair.” 

“Like enough,” said the landlord; “he was there and was 
offered for seventy pounds, but didn’t find a bidder at any price. 
What do you think of him ? ” 

“ He’s a splendid creature.” 

“ I am no judge of horses,” said the landlord ; “ but I am told 
he’s a first-rate trotter, good leaper, and has some of the blood of 
Syntax. What does all that signify? — the game is against his 
master, who is a down pin, is thinking of emigrating, and wants 
money confoundedly. He asked seventy pounds at the fair ; but, 
between ourselves, he would be glad to take fifty here.” 

“ I almost wish,” said I, “that I were a rich squire.” 

“You would buy him then,” said the landlord. Here he 
mused for some time, with a very profound look. “ It would be 
a rum thing,” said he, “if some time or other that horse should 
come into your hands. Didn’t you hear how he neighed when 
you talked about leaving the country? My granny was a wise 
woman, and was up to all kinds of signs and wonders, sounds and 
noises, the interpretation of the language of birds and animals, 
crowing and lowing, neighing and braying. If she had been here, 
she would have said at once that that horse was fated to carry you 
away. On that point, however, I can say nothing, for under fifty 
pounds no one can have him. Are you taking that money out of 
your pocket to pay me for the ale ? That won’t do ; nothing to 
pay ; I invited you this time. Now, if you are going, you had 
best get into the road through the yard-gate. I won’t trouble you 
to make your way through the kitchen and my fine-weather com- 
pany — confound them ! ” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


As I returned along the road I met Mr. Petulengro and one of 
his companions, who told me that they were bound for the public- 
house ; whereupon I informed Jasper how I had seen in the stable 
the horse which we had admired at the fair. “ I shouldn’t wonder 
if you buy that horse after all, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro. 
With a smile at the absurdity of such a supposition, I left him and 
his companion, and betook myself to the dingle. In the evening 
I received a visit from Mr. Petulengro, who forthwith commenced 
talking about the horse, which he had again seen, the landlord 
having shown it to him on learning that he was a friend of mine. 
He told me that the horse pleased him more than ever, he having 
examined his points with more accuracy than he had an oppor- 
tunity of doing on the first occasion, concluding by pressing me to 
buy him. I begged him to desist from such foolish importunity, 
assuring him that I had never so much money in all my life as 
would enable me to purchase the horse. Whilst this discourse 
was going on, Mr. Petulengro and myself were standing together 
in the midst of the dingle. Suddenly he began to move round me 
in a very singular manner, making strange motions with his hands, 
and frightful contortions with his features, till I became alarmed, 
and asked him whether he had not lost his senses? Whereupon, 
ceasing his movements and contortions, he assured me that he had 
not, but had merely been seized with a slight dizziness, and then 
once more returned to the subject of the horse. Feeling myself 
very angry, I told him that if he continued persecuting me in that 
manner, I should be obliged to quarrel with him ; adding, that I 
believed his only motive for asking me to buy the animal was to 
insult my poverty. “Pretty poverty,” said he, “ with fifty pounds 
in your pocket ; however, I have heard say that it is always the 
custom of your rich people to talk of their poverty, more especially 
when they wish to avoid laying out money.” Surprised at his 
saying that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, I asked him what he 
meant ; whereupon he told me that he was very sure that I had 
fifty pounds in my pocket, offering to lay me five shillings to that 
effect. “Done! ’’said I, “ I have scarcely more than the fifth 

(” 3 ) 8 


114 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825, 


part of what you say.” “ I know better, brother,” said Mr. 
Petulengro ; “if you only pull out what you have in the pocket of 
your slop, I am sure you will have lost your wager.” Putting my 
hand into the pocket, I felt something which I had never felt 
there before, and pulling it out, perceived that it was a clumsy 
leathern purse, which I found on opening contained four ten- 
pound notes, and several pieces of gold. “ Didn’t I tell you so, 
brother?” said Mr. Petulengro. “Now, in the first place, please 
to pay me the five shillings you have lost.” “ This is only a foolish 
piece of pleasantry,” said I; “you put it into my pocket whilst 
you were moving about me, making faces like a distracted person. 
Here, take your purse back.” “ I,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ not I, 
indeed ! don’t think I am such a fool. I have won my wager, so 
pay me the five shillings, brother.’’ “ Do drop this folly,” said I, 
“ and take your purse ; ” and I flung it on the ground. “ Brother,” 
said Mr. Petulengro, “you were talking of quarrelling with me 
just now. I tell you now one thing, which is, that if you do not 
take back the purse I will quarrel with .you ; and it shall be for 
good and all. I’ll drop your acquaintance, no longer call you my 
pal, and not even say sar shan to you when I meet you by the road- 
side. Hir mi diblis, I never will.” I saw by Jasper’s look and 
tone that he was in earnest, and, as I had really a regard for the 
strange being, I scarcely knew what to do. “ Now, be persuaded, 
brother, ’’-said Mr. Petulengro, taking up the purse, and handing 
it to me ; “ be persuaded ; put the purse into your pocket, and 
buy the horse.” “ Well,” said I, “ if I did so, would you acknow- 
ledge the horse to be yours, and receive the money again as soon 
as I should be able to repay you ? ” 

“ I would, brother, I would,” said he; “ return me the money 
as soon as you please, provided you buy the horse.” “ What 
motive have you for wishing me to buy that horse?” said I. 
“He’s to be sold for fifty pounds,” said Jasper, “and is worth 
four times that sum, though, like many a splendid bargain, he is 
now going a begging; buy him, and I’m confident that, in a little 
time, a grand gentleman of your appearance may have anything 
he asks for him, and found a fortune by his means. Moreover, 
brother, I want to dispose of this fifty pounds in a safe manner. 
If you don’t take it, I shall fool it away in no time, perhaps at 
card-playing, for you saw how I was cheated by those blackguard 
jockeys the other day — we gyptians don’t how to take care of 
money : our best plan when we have got a handful of guineas is 
to make buttons with them ; but I have plenty of golden buttons, 
and don’t wish to be troubled with more, so you can do me no 


1825.] 


THE LOAN. 


15 


greater favour than vesting the money in this speculation, by 
which my mind will be relieved of considerable care and trouble 
for some time at least. 

Perceiving that I still hesitated, he said : “ Perhaps, brother, 
you think I did not come honestly by the money : by the honest- 
est manner in the world, for it is the money I earnt by fighting in the 
ring : I did not steal it, brother, nor did I get it by disposing of 
spavined donkeys, or glandered ponies— nor is it, brother, the 
profits of my wife’s witchcraft and dukkerin.” 

“But,” said I, “you had better employ it in your traffic.” 
“I have plenty of money for my traffic, independent of this 
capital,” said Mr. Petulengro ; “ay, brother, and enough besides 
to back the husband of my wife’s sister, Sylvester, against Slam- 
mocks of the Chong gav for twenty pounds, which I am thinking 
of doing.” 

“ But,” said I, “after all, the horse may have found another 
purchaser by this time.” “ Not he,” said Mr. Petulengro ; “ there 
is nobody in this neighbourhood to purchase a horse like that, 
unless it be your lordship — so take the money, brother,” and he 
thrust the purse into my hand. Allowing myself to be persuaded, 
I kept possession of the purse. “Are you satisfied now?” said 
I. “ By no means, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ you will 
please to pay me the five shillings which you lost to me.” 
“ Wby,” said I, “ the fifty pounds which I found in my pocket 
were not mine, but put in by yourself.” “ That’s nothing to do 
with the matter, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “I betted you 
five shillings that you had fifty pounds in your pocket, which sum 
you had : I did not say that they were your own, but merely that 
you had fifty pounds ; you will therefore pay me, brother, or I 
shall not consider you an honourable man.” Not wishing to 
have any dispute about such a matter, I took five shillings out of 
my under pocket, and gave them to him. Mr. Petulengro took 
the money with great glee, observing : “ These five shillings I 
will take to the public-house forthwith, and spend in drinking 
with four of my brethren, and doing so will give me an opportu- 
nity of telling the landlord that I have found a customer for his 
horse, and that you are the man. It will be as well to secure the 
horse as soon as possible ; for though the dook tells me that the 
horse is intended for you, I have now and then found that the 
dook is, like myself, somewhat given to lying.” 

He then departed, and I remained alone in the dingle. I 
thought at first that I had committed a great piece of folly in 
consenting to purchase this horse ; I might find no desirable 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


116 


purchaser for him, until the money in my possession should be 
totally exhausted, and then I might be compelled to sell him for 
half the price 1 had given for him, or be even glad to find a 
person who would receive him at a gift ; I should then remain 
sans horse, and indebted to Mr. Petulengro. Nevertheless, it 
was possible that I might sell the horse very advantageously, and 
by so doing obtain a fund sufficient to enable me to execute some 
grand enterprise or other. My present way of life afforded no 
prospect of support, whereas the purchase of the horse did afford a 
possibility of bettering my condition, so, after all, had I not done 
right in consenting to purchase the horse ? The purchase was to 
be made with another person’s property, it is true, and I did not 
exactly like the idea of speculating with another person’s property, 
but Mr. Petulengro had thrust his money upon me, and if I lost 
his money, he could have no one but himself to blame; so I 
persuaded myself that I had, upon the whole, done right, and 
having come to that persuasion, I soon began to enjoy the idea 
of finding myself on horseback again, and figured to myself all 
kinds of strange adventures which I should meet with on the 
roads before the horse and I should part company. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


I SAW nothing more of Mr. Petulengro that evening; on the 
morrow, however, he came and informed me that he had secured 
the horse for me, and that I was to go and pay for it at noon. 
At the hour appointed, therefore, I went with Mr. Petulengro 
and Tawno to the public, where, as before, there was a crowd of 
company. The landlord received us in the bar with marks of 
much satisfaction and esteem, made us sit down, and treated us 
with some excellent mild draught ale. “ Who do you think has 
been here this morning?” he said tome; “why, that fellow in. 
black, who came to carry me off to a house of Popish devotion, 
where I was to pass seven days and nights in meditation, as I 
think he called it, before I publicly renounced the religion of my 
country. I read him a pretty lecture, calling him several unhand- 
some names, and asking him what he meant by attempting to 
seduce a churchwarden of the Church of England. I tell you 
what, he ran some danger ; for some of my customers, learning 
his errand, laid hold on him, and were about to toss him in a 
blanket, and then duck him in the horse-pond. I, however, 
interfered, and said, ‘that what he came about was between me 
and him, and that it was no business of theirs ’. To tell you the 
truth, I felt pity for the poor devil, more especially when I con- 
sidered that they merely sided against him because they thought 
him the weakest, and that they would have wanted to serve me in 
the same manner had they considered me a down pin ; so I 
rescued him from their hands, told him not to be afraid, for that 
nobody should touch him, and offered to treat him to some cold 
gin and water with a lump of sugar in it ; and on his refusing, 
told him that he had better make himself scarce, which he did, 
and I hope I shall never see him again. So I suppose you are 
come for the horse ; mercy upon us ! who would have thought 
you would have become the purchaser? The horse, however, 
seemed to know it by his neighing. How did you ever come by 
the money ? however, that’s no matter of mine. I suppose you 
are strongly backed by certain friends you have.” 

J ipformed the landlord that he was right in supposing that J 

(“ 7 ) 


ii8 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


came for the horse, but that, before I paid for him, I should wish 
to prove his capabilities. “With all my heart,” said the landlord. 
“ You shall mount him this moment.” Then going into the stable, 
he saddled and bridled the horse, and presently brought him out 
before the door. I mounted him, Mr. Petulengro putting a heavy 
whip into my hand, and saying a few words to me in his own 
mysterious language. “ The horse wants no whip,” said the land- 
lord. “ Hold your tongue, daddy,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ My 
pal knows quite well what to do with the whip, he’s not going to 
beat the horse with it.” About four hundred yards from the 
house there was a hill, to the foot of which the road ran almost 
on a perfect level ; towards the foot of this hill, I trotted the 
horse, who set off at a long, swift pace, seemingly at the rate of 
about sixteen miles an hour. On reaching the foot of the hill, I 
wheeled the animal round, and trotted him towards the house — 
the horse sped faster than before. Ere he had advanced a hun- 
dred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice which 
Mr. Petulengro had given me, in his own language, and holding 
it over the horse’s head commenced drumming on the crown with 
the knob of the whip ; the horse gave a slight start, but instantly 
recovering himself, continued his trot till he arrived at the door 
of the public-house, amidst the acclamations of the company, who 
had all rushed out of the house to be spectators of what was going 
on. “ I see now what you wanted the whip for,” said the land- 
lord, “ and sure enough, that drumming on your hat was no bad 
way of learning whether the horse was quiet or not. Well, did 
you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better trotter ? ” “ My cob 

shall trot against him,” said a fellow, dressed in velveteen, mounted 
on a low powerful-looking animal. “My cob shall trot against 
him to the hill and back again— come on !” We both started; 
the cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half the way 
to the hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he 
was about fifteen yards behind. Whereupon I turned slowly and 
waited for him. We then set off towards the house, but now the 
cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards behind when I 
reached the door. This running of horses, the wild uncouth 
forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled 
from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient 
horse-races of the heathen north. I almost imagined myself 
Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of . 

“ Are you satisfied ? ” said the landlord. “ Didn’t you tell me 
that he could leap ? ” I demanded. “ I am told he can,” said the 
landlord } “ but I can’t consent that he should be tried in th^t 


1825.] 


THE HORSE. 


119 


way, as he might be damaged.” “ That’s right ! ” said Mr. Petu- 
lengro, “ don’t trust my pal to leap that horse, he’ll merely fling 
him down, and break his neck and his own. There’s a better 
man than he close by ; let him get on his back and leap him.” 
“You mean yourself, I suppose,” said the landlord. “Well, I 
call that talking modestly, and nothing becomes a young man 
more than modesty.” “ It a’n’t I, daddy,” said Mr. Petulengro. 
“ Here’s the man,” said he, pointing to Tawno. “ Here’s the 
horse-leaper of the world ! ” “ You mean the horse-back breaker,” 

said the landlord. “That big fellow would break down my 
cousin’s horse.” “Why, he weighs only sixteen stone,” said Mr. 
Petulengro. “ And his sixteen stone, with his way of handling a 
horse, does not press so much as any other one’s thirteen. Only 
let him get on the horse’s back, and you’ll see what he can do ! ” 
“ No,” said the landlord, “ it won’t do.” Whereupon Mr. Petu- 
lengro became very much excited, and pulling out a handful 
of money, said : “ I’ll tell you what. I’ll forfeit these guineas, if 
my black pal there does the horse any kind of damage ; duck me 
in the horse-pond if I don’t.” “ Well,” said the landlord, “ for the 
sport of the thing I consent, so let your white pal get down, and 
your black pal mount as soon as he pleases.” I felt rather 
mortified at Mr. Petulengro’s interference, and showed no dis- 
position to quit my seat ; whereupon he came up to me and 
said : “ Now, brother, do get out of the saddle — you are no 
bad hand at trotting, I am willing to acknowledge that ; but at 
leaping a horse there is no one like Tawno. Let every dog 
be praised for his own gift. You have been showing off in 
your line for the last half-hour ; now do give Tawno a chance 
of exhibiting a little ; poor fellow, he hasn’t often a chance of 
exhibiting, as his wife keeps him so much out of sight.” Not 
wishing to appear desirous of engrossing the public attention, 
and feeling rather desirous to see how Tawno, of whose exploits 
in leaping horses I had frequently heard, would acquit himself in 
the affair, I at length dismounted, and Tawno, at a bound, leaped 
into the saddle, where he really looked like Gunnar of Hlitharend, 
save and except the complexion of Gunnar was florid,' whereas 
that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness ; and that all 
Tawno’s features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar 
had a snub nose. “There’s a leaping-bar behind the house,” 
said the landlord. “ Leaping-bar ! ” said Mr. Petulengro scorn- 
fully. “ Do you think my black pal ever rides at a leaping-bar? 
No more than at a windle-straw. Leap over that meadow-wall, 
Tawno.” Just past the house, in the direction in which I had 


120 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which was 
a small meadow. Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall, 
permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, 
and pressing his calves against the horse’s sides, he loosed the 
rein, and the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant 
style. “ Well done, man and horse ! ” said Mr. Petulengro ; “ now 
come back, Tawno.” The leap from the side of the meadow was, 
however, somewhat higher ; and the horse, when pushed at it, at 
first turned away ; whereupon Tawno backed him to a greater 
distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry ; 
whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of 
his legs against it. “ A near thing,” said the landlord, “ but a 
good leap. Now, no more leaping, so long as I have control over 
the animal.” The horse was then led back to the stable ; and 
the landlord, myself and companions going into the bar, I paid 
down the money for the horse. 

Scarcely was the bargain concluded, when two or three of the 
company began to envy me the possession of the horse, and forcing 
their way into the bar, with much noise and clamour, said that the 
horse had been sold too cheap. One fellow, in particular, with a 
red waistcoat, the son of a wealthy farmer, said that if he had but 
known that^ the horse had been so good a one, he would have 
bought it at the first price asked for it, which he was now willing 
to pay, that is to-morrow, supposing — “ supposing your father will 
let you have the money,” said the landlord, “which, after all, 
might not be the case ; but, however that may be, it is too late 
now. I think myself the horse has been sold for too little money, 
but if so, all the better for the young man, who came forward 
when no other body did with his money in his hand. There, take 
yourselves out of my bar,” said he to the fellows ; “ and a pretty 
scoundrel you,” said he to the man of the red waistcoat, “ to say 
the horse has been sold too cheap ; why, it was only yesterday 
you said he was good for nothing, and were passing all kinds of 
jokes at him. Take yourself out of my bar, I say, you and all of 
you,” and he turned the fellows out. I then asked the landlord 
whether he would permit the horse to remain in the stable for 
a short time, provided I paid for his entertainment ; and on his 
willingly consenting, I treated my friends with ale, and then re- 
turned with them to the encampment. 

That evening I informed Mr. Petulengro and his party that on 
the morrow I intended to mount my horse and leave that part of 
the country in quest of adventures ; inquiring of Jasper where, in the 
event of my selling the horse advantageously, 'l might meet with 


1825.] 


THE GIFT. 


121 


him, and repay the money I had borrowed of him ; whereupon Mr. 
Petulengro informed me that in about ten weeks I might find him 
at a certain place at the Chong gav. I then stated that as I could 
not well carry with me the property which I possessed in the 
dingle, which after all was of no considerable value, I had resolved 
to bestow the said property, namely, the pony, tent, tinker-tools, 
etc., on Ursula and her husband, partly because they were poor, 
and partly on account of the great kindness which I bore to 
Ursula, from whom I had, on various occasions, experienced all 
manner of civility, particularly in regard to crabbed words. On 
hearing this intelligence, Ursula returned many thanks to her 
gentle brother, as she called me, and Sylvester was so overjoyed 
that, casting aside his usual phlegm, he said I was the best friend 
he had ever had in the world, and in testimony of his gratitude 
swore that he would permit me to give his wife a choomer in the 
presence of the whole company, which offer, however, met with a 
very mortifying reception, the company frowning disapprobation, 
Ursula protesting against anything of the kind, and I myself show- 
ing no forwardness to avail myself of it, having inherited from 
nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no 
slight store acquired in the course of my Irish education. I passed 
that night alone in the dingle in a very melancholy manner, with 
little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners ; and in the morning 
when I quitted it I shed several tears, as I reflected that I should 
probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many 
hours in her company. 


CHAPTER XX. 


On reaching the plain above, I found my Romany friends break- 
fasting, and on being asked by Mr. Petulengro to join them, I 
accepted the invitation. No sooner was breakfast over than I 
informed Ursula and her husband that they would findjthe property, 
which I had promised them, below in the dingle, commending the 
little pony Ambrol to their best care. I took leave of the whole 
company, which was itself about to break up camp and to depart 
in the direction of London, and made the best of my way to the 
public-house. I had a small bundle in my hand, and was dressed 
in the same manner as when I departed from London, having left 
my waggoner’s slop with the other effects in the dingle. On 
arriving at the public-house, I informed the landlord that I was 
come for my horse, inquiring, at the same time, whether he could 
not accommodate me with a bridle and saddle. He told me that 
the bridle and saddle, with which I had ridden the horse on the 
preceding day, were at my serviqe for a trifle ; that he had received 
them some time since in payment for a debt, and that he had 
himself no use for them. The leathers of the bridle were rather 
shabby, and the bit rusty, and the saddle was old-fashioned ; but 
I was happy to purchase them for seven shillings, more especially 
as the landlord added a small valise, which he said could be 
strapped to the saddle, and which I should find very convenient 
for carrying my things in. I then proceeded to the stable, told 
the horse we were bound on an expedition, and giving him a feed 
of corn, left him to discuss it, and returned to the bar-room to 
have a little farewell chat with the landlord, and at the same time 
to drink with him a farewell glass of ale. Whilst we were talking 
and drinking, the niece came and joined us : she was a decent, 
sensible young woman, who appeared to take a great interest in 
her uncle, whom she regarded with a singular mixture of pride 
and disapprobation — pride for the renown which he had acquired 
by his feats of old, and disapprobation for his late imprudences. 
She said that she hoped that his misfortunes would be a warning 
to him to turn more to his God than he had hitherto done, and to 
give up cock-fighting and other low-life practices. To which the 

(122) 


1825.] 


THE DEPARTURE. 


123 


landlord replied, that with respect to cock-fighting he intended to 
give it up entirely, being determined no longer to risk his capital 
upon birds, and with respect to his religious duties, he should 
attend the church of which he was churchwarden at least once a 
quarter, adding, however, that he did not intend to become either 
canter or driveller, neither of which characters would befit a 
publican surrounded by such customers as he was, and that to 
the last day of his life he hoped to be able to make use of his fists. 
After a stay of about two hours I settled accounts, and having 
bridled and saddled my horse, and strapped on the valise, I 
mounted, shook hands with the landlord and his niece, and 
departed, notwithstanding that they both entreated me to tarry 
until the evening, it being then the heat of the day. 


CHAPTER XXL 


I BENT my course in the direction of the north, more induced 
by chance than any particular motive ; all quarters of the world 
having about equal attractions for me. I was in high spirits at 
finding myself once more on horseback, and trotted gaily on, 
until the heat of the weather induced me to slacken my pace, 
more out of pity for my horse than because I felt any particular 
inconvenience from it — heat and cold being then, and still, matters 
of great indifference to me. What I thought of I scarcely know, 
save and except that I have a glimmering recollection that I felt 
some desire to meet with one of those adventures which upon the 
roads of England are generally as plentiful as blackberries in 
autumn ; and Fortune, who has generally been ready to gratify 
my inclinations, provided it cost her very little by so doing, was 
not slow in furnishing me with an adventure, perhaps as character- 
istic of the English roads as anything which could have happened. 

I might have travelled about six miles amongst cross roads 
and lanes, when suddenly I found myself upon a broad and very 
dusty road which seemed to lead due north. As I wended along 
this I saw a man upon a donkey riding towards me. The man 
was commonly dressed, with a broad felt hat on his head, and a 
kind of satchel on his back ; he seemed to be in a mighty hurry, 
and was every now and then belabouring the donkey with a 
cudgel. The donkey, however, which was a fine large creature 
of the silver-grey species, did not appear to sympathise at all with 
its rider in his desire to get on, but kept its head turned back as 
much as possible, moving from one side of the road to the other, 
and not making much forward way. As I passed, being naturally 
of a very polite disposition, I gave the man the sele of the day, 
asking him, at the same time, why he beat the donkey ; where- 
upon the fellow eyeing me askance, told me to mind my own 
business, with the addition of something which I need not repeat. 
I had not proceeded a furlong before I saw seated on the dust 
by the wayside, close by a heap of stones, and with several flints 
before him, a respectable-looking old man, with a straw hat and a 
white smock, who was weeping bitterly. 


1825.] 


ADVENTURE NO. /. 


125 


“ What are you crying for, father ? ” said I. ‘‘ Have you come 
to any hurt?” “ Hurt enough,” sobbed the old man. “I have 
just been tricked out of the best ass in England by a villain, who 
gave me nothing but these trash in return,” pointing to the stones 
before him. “ I really scarcely understand you,” said I ; “ I wish 
you would explain yourself more clearly.” “ I was riding on my 
ass from market,” said the old man, “when I met here a fellow 
with a sack on his back, who, after staring at the ass and me a 
moment or two, asked me if I would sell her. I told him that I 
could not think of selling her, as she was very useful to me, and 
though an animal, my true companion, whom I loved as much as 
if she were my wife and daughter. I then attempted to pass on, 
but the fellow stood before me, begging me to sell her, saying 
that he would give me anything for her; well, seeing that he per- 
sisted, I said at last that if I sold her, I must have six pounds for 
her, and I said so to get rid of him, for I saw that he was a 
shabby fellow, who had probably not six shillings in the world ; 
but I had better have held my tongue,” said the old man, crying 
more bitterly than before, “ for the words were scarcely out of my 
mouth, when he said he would give me what I asked, and taking 
the sack from his back, he pulled out a steelyard, and going to 
the heap of stones there, he took up several of them and weighed 
them, then flinging them down before me, he said : ‘ There are 
six pounds, neighbour ; now, get off the ass, and hand her over to 
me ’. Well, I sat like one dumbfoundered for a time, till at last 
I asked him what he meant ? ‘ What do I mean ? ’ said he, ‘ you 

old rascal, why, I mean to claim my purchase,’ and then he swore 
so awfully, that scarcely knowing what I did I got down, and he 
jumped on the animal and rode off as fast as he could.” “ I 
suppose he was the fellow,” said I, “ whom I just now met upon 
a fine grey ass, which he was beating with a cudgel.” “ I dare- 
say he was,” said the old man ; “ I saw him beating her as he rode 
away, and I thought I should have died.” “ I never heard such 
a story,” said I ; “ well, do you mean to submit to such a piece of 
roguery quietly?” “Oh, dear,” said the old man, “ what can I 
do ? I am seventy-nine years of age ; I am bad on my feet, and 
dar’n’t go after him.” “Shall I go?” said I; “the fellow is a 
thief, and any one has a right to stop him.” “ Oh, if you could 
but bring her again to me,” said the old man, “ I would bless you 
to my dying day ; but have a care ; I don’t know but after all 
the law may say that she is his lawful purchase. I asked six 
pounds for her, and he gave me six pounds.” “Six flints, you 
mean,” said I ; “ no, no, the law is not quite so bad as that either ; 


126 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


I know something about her, and am sure that she will never 
sanction such a quibble. At all events, Til ride after the fellow.” 
Thereupon turning the horse round, I put him to his very best 
trot ; I rode nearly a mile without obtaining a glimpse of the 
fellow, and was becoming apprehensive that he had escaped me by 
turning down some by-path, two or three of which I had passed. 
Suddenly, however, on the road making a slight turning, I per- 
ceived him right before me, moving at a tolerably swift pace, 
having by this time probably overcome the resistance of the animal. 
Putting my horse to a full gallop, I shouted at the top of my voice : 
“ Get off that donkey, you rascal, and give her up to me, or I’ll ride 
you down ”. The fellow hearing the thunder of the horse’s hoofs 
behind him, drew up on one side of the road. “ What do you 
want ? ” said he, as I stopped my charger, now almost covered with 
sweat and foam close beside him. “ Do you want to rob me? ” 
“ To rob you ? ” said I. “ No ! but to take from you that ass, 
of which you have just robbed its owner.” “ I have robbed no 
man,” said the fellow; “I just now purchased it fairly of its 
master, and the law will give it to me ; he asked six pounds for. 
it, and I gave him six pounds.” ^^Six stones, you mean, you 
rascal,” said I ; “ get down, or my horse shall be upon you in a 
moment ; ” then with a motion of my reins, I caused the horse 
to rear, pressing his sides with my heels as if I intended to make 
him leap. “ Stop,” said the man, “ I’ll get down and then try if 
I can’t serve you out.” He then got down, and confronted me 
with his cudgel ; he was a horrible-looking fellow, and seemed 
prepared for anything. Scarcely, however, had he dismounted, 
when the donkey jerked the bridle out of his hand, and probably 
'in revenge for the usage she had received, gave him a pair of 
tremendous kicks on the hip with her hinder legs, which over- 
turned him, and then scampered down the road the way she had 
come. “ Pretty treatment this,” said the fellow, getting up with- 
out his cudgel, and holding his hand to his side ; “ I wish I may 
not be lamed for life ”. “ And if you be,” said I, “ it would merely 
serve you right, you rascal, for trying to cheat a poor old man out 
of his property by quibbling at words.” “Rascal!” said the 
fellow, “ you lie, I am no rascal ; and as for quibbling with words 
— suppose I did I What then ? All the first people does it I 
The newspapers does it 1 the gentlefolks that calls themselves the 
guides of the popular mind does it I I’m no ignoramus. I reads 
the newspapers, and knows what’s what.” “ You read them to 
some purpose,” said I. “Well, if you are lamed for life, and un- 
fitted for any active line — turn newspaper editor; I should say 


1825.] 


127 


CONFOUND YOUir^ 


you are perfectly qualified, and this day’s adventure may be the 
foundation of your fortune,” thereupon I turned round and rode 
off. The fellow followed me with a torrent of abuse. “ Confound 
you,” said he — yet^hat was not the expression either — “I know 
you ; you are one of the horse-patrol come down into the country 
on leave to see your relations. Confound you, you and the like of 
you have knocked my business on the head near Lunnon, and 
I suppose we shall have you shortly in the country.” “ To the 
newspaper office,” said I, “and fabricate falsehoods out of flint 
stones ; ” then touching the horse with my heels, I trotted off, and 
coming to the place where I had seen the old man, I found him 
there, risen from the ground, and embracing his ass. 

I told him that I was travelling down the road, and said that 
if his way lay in the same direction as mine he could do no better 
than accompany me for some distance, lest the fellow who, for 
aught I knew, might be hovering nigh, might catch him alone, 
and again get his ass from him. After thanking me for my offer, 
which he said he would accept, he got upon his ass, and we 
proceeded together down the road. My new acquaintance said 
very little of his own accord ; and when I asked him a question, 
answered rather incoherently. I heard him every now and then 
say, “ Villain ! ” to himself, after which he would pat the donkey’s 
neck, from which circumstance I concluded that his mind .was 
occupied with his late adventure. After travelling about two 
miles, we reached a place where a drift-way on the right led from 
the great road ; here my companion stopped, and on my asking 
whether he was going any farther, he told me that the path to the 
right was the way to his home. 

I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, 
and said, that as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would 
go with him and taste some of his mead. As 1 had never tasted 
mead, of which I had frequently read in the compositions of the 
Welsh bards, and, moreover, felt rather thirsty from the heat of 
the day, I told him that I should have great pleasure in attending 
him. Whereupon, turning off together, we proceeded about half 
a mile, sometimes between stone walls, and at other times hedges, 
till we reached a small hamlet, through which we passed, and 
presently came to a very pretty cottage, delightfully situated within 
a garden, surrounded by a hedge of woodbines. Opening a gate 
at one corner of the garden he led the way to a large shed, which 
stood partly behind the cottage, which he said was his stable ; 
thereupon he dismounted and led his donkey into the shed, which 
was without stalls, but had a long rack and manger. On one side 


128 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


he tied his donkey, after taking off her caparisons, and I followed 
his example, tying my horse at the other side with a rope halter 
which he gave me ; he then asked me to come in and taste his 
mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my 
horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him 
carefully down. Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood 
in the shed, I allowed the horse to drink about half a pint ; and 
then turning to the old man, who all the time had stood by look- 
ing at my proceedings, I asked him whether he had any oats ? 
“ I have all kinds of grain,” he replied ; and, going out, he 
presently returned with two measures, one a large and the other 
a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and 
handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other 
before the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned 
her nose to her master’s face, and fairly kissed him. Having given 
my horse his portion, I told the old man that I was ready to taste 
his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon he ushered me into 
his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal table in a neatly 
sanded kitchen, he produced from an old-fashioned closet a 
bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which might 
each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and filling 
the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me, and 
taking a seat opposite to me he lifted the other, nodded, and saying 
to me : “ Health and welcome,” placed it to his lips and drank. 

“ Health and thanks,” I replied, and being very thirsty, 
emptied my cup at a draught. I had scarcely done so, however, 
when I half-repented. The mead was deliciously sweet and 
mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my 
head, and my brain became slightly dizzy. “ Mead is a strong 
drink,” said the old man, as he looked at me, with half a smile 
on his countenance. “ This is at any rate,” said I, “so strong, 
indeed, that I would not drink another cup for any consideration.” 
“And I would not ask you,” said the old man ; “ for, if you did, 
you would most probably be stupid all day, and wake next 
morning with a headache. Mead is a good drink, but woundily 
strong, especially to. those who be not used to it, as I suppose you 
are not.” “ Where do you get it ? ” said I. “ I make it myself,” 
said the old man, “ from the honey which my bees make.” 
“ Have you many bees ? ” I inquired. “ A great many,” said the 
old man. “ And do you keep them,” said I, “ for the sake of 
making mead with their honey?” “I keep them,” he replied, 
^‘partly because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring 
me in ; they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, 


1825.] 


A RURAL SCENE. 


129 


and with a little I make me some mead to warm my poor heart with, 
or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself.” “ And do you 
support yourself entirely by means of your bees?” “No,” said 
the old man ; “ I have a little bit of ground behind my house, 
which is my principal means of support.” “And do you live 
alone ?” “ Yes,” said he ; “ with the exception of the bees and 

the donkey, I live quite alone.” “And have you always lived 
alone?” The old man emptied his cup, and his heart being 
warmed with the mead, he told me his history, which was simplicity 
itself. His father was a small yeoman, who, at his death, had left 
him, his only child, the cottage, with a small piece of ground 
behind it, and on this little property he had lived ever since. 
About the age of twenty-five he had married an industrious young 
woman, by whom he had one daughter, who died before reaching 
years of womanhood. His wife, however, had survived her 
daughter many years, and had been a great comfort to him, 
assisting him in his rural occupations ; but, about four years 
before the present period, he had lost her, since which time he 
had lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could ; 
cultivating his ground, with the help of a lad from the neighbour- 
ing village, attending to his bees, and occasionally riding his 
donkey to market, and hearing the word of God, which he said 
he was sorry he could not read, twice a week regularly at the 
parish church. Such was the old man’s tale. 

When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, 
and showed me his little domain. It consisted of about two acres 
in admirable cultivation ; a small portion of it formed a kitchen 
garden, whilst the rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat, 
barley, peas and beans. The air was full of ambrosial sweets, 
resembling those proceeding from an orange grove, a place which 
though I had never seen at that time, I since have. In the garden 
was the habitation of the bees, a long box, supported upon three 
oaken stumps. It was full of small round glass windows, and 
appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much 
resembling drawers placed sideways. He told me that, as one 
compartment was filled, the bees left it for another ; so that, 
whenever he wanted honey, he could procure some without injuring 
the insects. Through the little round windows I could see several 
of the bees at work ; hundreds were going in and out of the doors ; 
hundreds were buzzing about on the flowers, the woodbines and 
beans. As I looked around on the well-cultivated field, the 
garden, and the bees, I thought I had never before seen so rural 
and peaceful a scene. 


9 


130 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


When we returned to the cottage we again sat down, and I 
asked the old man whether he was not afraid to live alone. He 
told me that he was not, for that, upon the whole, his neighbours 
were very kind to him. I mentioned the fellow who had swindled 
him of his donkey upon the road. “ That was no neighbour of 
mine,” said the old man, “ and, perhaps, I shall never see him 
again, or his like.” “It’s a dreadful thing,” said I, “to have no 
other resource, when injured, than to shed tears on the road.” 
“ It is so,” said the old man ; “ but God saw the tears of the old, 
and sent a helper.” “Why did you not help yourself?” said I. 
“ Instead of getting off your ass, why did you not punch at the 
fellow, or at any rate use dreadful language, call him villain, and 
shout robbery?” “Punch!” said the old man, “shout! what, 
with these hands, and this voice — Lord, how you run on ! I am 
old, young chap, I am old ! ” “Well,” said I, “ it is a shameful 
thing to cry even when old.” “ You think so now,” said the old 
man, “because you are young and strong; perhaps when you are 
as old as I, you will not be ashamed to cry.” 

Upon the whole I was rather pleased with the old man, and 
much with all about him. As evening drew nigh, I told him that 
I must proceed on my journey ; whereupon he invited me to tarry 
with him during the night, telling me that he had a nice room and 
bed above at my service. I, however, declined, and bidding 
him farewell, mounted my horse and departed. Regaining the 
road, I proceeded once more in the direction of the north ; and, 
after a few hours, coming to a comfortable public-house, I stopped, 
and put up for the night. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


I DID not awake till rather late the next morning, and when I 
did, I felt considerable drowsiness, with a slight headache, which 
I was uncharitable enough to attribute to the mead which I had 
drunk on the preceding day. After feeding my horse, and break- 
fasting, I proceeded on my wanderings. Nothing occurred worthy 
of relating till midday was considerably past, when I came to a 
pleasant valley, between two gentle hills. I had dismounted, in 
order to ease my horse, and was leading him along by the bridle, 
when, on my right, behind a bank in which some umbrageous 
ashes were growing, I heard a singular noise. I stopped short 
and listened, and presently said to myself : “ Surely this is snoring, 
perhaps that of a hedgehog”. On further consideration, however, 
I was convinced that the noise which I heard, and which certainly 
seemed to be snoring, could not possibly proceed from the nostrils 
of so small an animal, but must rather come from those of a giant, 
so loud and sonorous was it. About two or three yards farther 
was a gate, partly open, to which I went, and peeping into the 
field, saw a man lying on some rich grass, under the shade of 
one of the ashes ; he was snoring away at a great rate. Impelled 
by curiosity, I fastened the bridle of my horse to the gate, and 
went up to the man. He was a genteelly-dressed individual ; 
rather corpulent, with dark features, and seemingly about forty- 
five. He lay on his back, his hat slightly over his brow, and at 
his right hand lay an open book. So strenuously did he snore 
that the wind from his nostrils agitated, perceptibly, a fine cambric 
frill which he wore at his bosom. I gazed upon him for some 
time, expecting that he might awake ; but he did not, but kept 
on snoring, his breast heaving convulsively. At last, the noise he 
made became so terrible, that I felt alarmed for his safety, 
imagining that a fit might seize him, and he lose his life while 
fast asleep. I therefore exclaimed : “ Sir, sir, awake ! you sleep 
overmuch But my voice failed to rouse him, and he continued 
snoring as before ; whereupon I touched him slightly with my 
riding wand, but failing to wake him, I touched him again more 
vigorously ; whereupon he opened his eyes, and, probably imagin- 


132 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


ing himself in a dream, closed them again. But I was determined 
to arouse him, and cried as loud as I could : “ Sir, sir, pray sleep 
no more ! ” He heard what I said, opened his eyes again, stared 
at me with a look of some consciousness, and, half-raising himself 
upon his elbows, asked me what was the matter. “ I beg your 
pardon,” said I, “ but I took the liberty of awaking you, because 
you appeared to be much disturbed in your sleep ; I was fearful, 
too, that you might catch a fever from sleeping under a tree.” “ I 
run no risk,” said the man, “ I often come and sleep here ; and 
as for being disturbed in my sleep, I felt very comfortable; I wish 
you had not awoke me.” “Well,” said I, “I beg your pardon 
once more^ I assure you that what I did was with the best 
intention.” “ Oh ! pray make no further apology,” said the 
individual ; “ I make no doubt that what you did was done 
kindly; but there’s an old proverb, to the effect, ‘that you should 
let sleeping dogs lie,’ ” he added with a smile. Then, getting up, 
and stretching himself with a yawn, he took up his book and 
said : “ I have slept quite long enough, and it’s quite time for me 
to be going home.” “Excuse my curiosity,” said I, “if I inquire 
what may induce you to come and sleep in this meadow?” “To 
tell you the truth,” answered he, “I am a bad sleeper.” “ Pray, 
pardon me,” said I, “ if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more 
heartily.” “ If I did so,” said the individual, “ I am beholden to 
this meadow and this book ; but I am talking riddles, and will 
explain myself. I am the owner of a very pretty property, of 
which this valley forms part. Some years ago, however, up 
started a person who said the property was his ; a lawsuit ensued, 
and I was on the brink of losing my all, when, most unexpectedly, 
the suit was determined in my favour. Owing, however, to 
the anxiety to which my mind had been subjected for years, 
my nerves had become terribly shaken ; and no sooner was the 
trial terminated than sleep forsook my pillow. I sometimes 
passed nights without closing an eye ; I took opiates, but they 
rather increased than alleviated my malady. About three weeks 
ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand, and advised me 
to take it every day to some pleasant part of my estate, and try 
and read a page or two, assuring me, if I did, that I should 
infallibly fall asleep. I took his advice, and selecting this place, 
which I considered the pleasantest part of my property, I came, 
and lying down, commenced reading the book, and before finish- 
ing a page was in a dead slumber. Every day since then I have 
repeated the experiment, and every time with equal success. I 
am a single man, without any children ; and yesterday I made my 


18^5.] 


CURB FOR WAKEFULNESS. 


13s 


will, in which, in the event of my friend’s surviving me, I have 
left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for me 
the most invaluable of all blessings — sleep.” 

“ Dear me,” said I, “ how very extraordinary ! Do you think 
that your going to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book ? ” 
“ I suppose by both,” said my new acquaintance, “acting in co- 
operation.” “It may be so,” said I; “the magic influence does 
certainly not proceed from the meadow alone ; for since I have 
been here, I have not felt the slightest inclination to sleep. Does 
the book consist of prose or poetry?” “It consists of poetry,” 
said the individual. “Not Byron’s?” said 1. “Byron’s!” 
repeated the individual, with a smile of contempt ; “ no, no ; 
there is nothing narcotic in Byron’s poetry. I don’t like it. I 
used to read it, but it thrilled, agitated and kept me awake. No ; 
this is not Byron’s poetry, but the inimitable ’s ” — mention- 

ing a . name that I had never heard till then. “ Will you permit me 
to look at it?” said I. “With pleasure,” he answered, politely 
handing me the book. I took the volume, and glanced over the 
contents. It was written in blank verse, and appeared to abound 
in descriptions of scenery ; there was much mention of mountains, 
valleys, streams and waterfalls, harebells and daffodils. These 
descriptions were interspersed with dialogues, which though they 
proceeded from the mouths of pedlars and rustics, were of the 
most edifying description ; mostly on subjects moral or meta- 
physical, and couched in the most gentlemanly and unexception- 
able language, without the slightest mixture of vulgarity, coarseness 
or pie-bald grammar. Such appeared to me to be the contents 
of the book ; but before I could form a very clear idea of them, 
I found myself nodding, and a surprising desire to sleep coming 
over me. Rousing myself, however, by a strong effort, I closed 
the book, and, returning it to the owner, inquired of him, 
“ Whether he had any motive in coming and lying down in the 
meadow, besides the wish of enjoying sleep ? ” “ None whatever,” 

he replied ; “ indeed, I should be very glad not to be compelled 
to do so, always provided I could enjoy the blessing of sleep ; for 
by lying down under trees, I may possibly catch the rheumatism, 
or be stung by serpents ; and, moreover, in the rainy season and 
winter the thing will be impossible, unless I erect a tent, which 
will possibly destroy the charm.” “Well,” said I, “you need 
give yourself no further trouble about coming here, as I am fully 
convinced that with this book in your hand, you may go to sleep 
anywhere, as your friend was doubtless aware, though he wished 
to interest your imagination for a time by persuading you to lie 


134 


[1825. 


[THE ROMANY RYR, 


abroad ; therefore, in future, whenever you feel disposed to sleep, 
try to read the book, and you will be sound asleep in a minute ; 
the narcotic influence lies in the book, and not the field.” “ I 
will follow your advice,” said the individual; and this very night 
take it with me to bed, though I hope in time to be able to sleep 
without it, my nerves being already much quieted from the 
slumbers I have enjoyed in this field.” He then moved towards 
the gate, where we parted, he going one way and I and my 
horse the other. 

More than twenty years subsequent to this period, after much 
wandering about the world, returning to my native country, I was 
invited to a literary tea-party, where, the discourse turning upon 
poetry, I, in order to show that I was not more ignorant than my 
neighbours, began to talk about Byron, for whose writings I really 
entertained considerable admiration, though I had no particular 
esteem for the man himself. At first, I received no answer to 
what I said — the company merely surveying me with a kind of 
sleepy stare. At length a lady, about the age of forty, with a 
large wart on her face, observed in a drawling tone, “That she 
had not read Byron — at least, since her girlhood — and then only 
a few passages ; but that the impression on her mind was that his 
writings were of a highly objectionable character.” “ I also read 
a little of him in my boyhood,” said a gentleman about sixty, but 
who evidently, from his dress and demeanour, wished to appear 
about thirty, “ but I highly disapproved of him ; for notwith- 
standing he was a nobleman, he is frequently very coarse, and very 
fond of raising emotion. Now emotion is what I dislike,” 
drawling out the last syllable of the word dislike. “ There is only 

one poet for me — the divine ” and then he mentioned a 

name which I had only once heard, and afterwards quite forgotten, 
the name mentioned by the snorer in the field. “ Ah ! there is 
no one like him ! ” murmured some more of the company ; “ the 
poet of nature — of nature without its vulgarity.” I wished very 
much to ask these people whether they were ever bad sleepers, 
and whether they had read the poet, so called, from a desire of being 
set to sleep. Within a few days, however, I learnt that it had of 
late become very fashionable and genteel to appear half-asleep, 
and that one could exhibit no better mark of superfine breeding 
than by occasionally in company setting one’s rhonchal organ in 
action. I then ceased to wonder at the popularity, which I found 

nearly universal, of ’s poetry; for, certainly in order to 

make one’s self appear sleepy in company, or occasionally to 
induce sleep, nothing could be more efficacious than a slight prelec- 


1825.] 


^^POOR BYRON r' 


135 


tion of his poems. So poor Byron, with his fire and emotion — to 
say nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry — was dethroned, as I 
had prophesied he would be more than twenty years before, on the 
day of his funeral, though I had little idea that his humiliation, 
would have been brought about by one, whose sole strength 
consists in setting people to sleep. Well, all things are doomed 
to terminate in sleep. Before that termination, however, I will 
venture to prophesy that people will become a little more awake, 
snoring and yawning be a little less in fashion, and poor Byron be 
once more reinstated on his throne, though his rival will always 
stand a good chance of being worshipped by those whose ruined 
nerves are insensible to the narcotic powers of opium and 
morphine. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


I CONTINUED my journey, passing through one or two villages. 
The day was exceedingly hot, and the roads dusty. In order to 
cause my horse as little fatigue as possible, and not to chafe his 
back, I led him by the bridle, my doing which brought upon me 
a shower of remarks, jests and would-be witticisms from the 
drivers and front outside passengers of sundry stage-coaches 
which passed me in one direction or the other. In this way I 
proceeded till considerably past noon, when I felt myself very 
fatigued, and my horse appeared no less so ; and it is probable 
that the lazy and listless manner in which we were moving on, 
tired us both much more effectually than hurrying along at a swift 
trot would have done, for I have observed that when the energies 
of the body are not exerted a languor frequently comes over it. 
At length arriving at a very large buildmg with an archway, near 
the entrance of a town, I sat down on what appeared to be a 
stepping-block, and presently experienced a great depression of 
spirits. I began to ask myself whither I was going, and what I 
should do with myself and the horse which I held by the bridle ? It 
appeared to me that I was alone in the world with the poor animal, 
who looked for support to me, who knew not how to support 
myself. Then the image of Isopel Berners came into my mind, 
and when I thought hew I had lost her for ever, and how happy 
I might have been with her in the New World had she not deserted 
me, I became yet more miserable. 

As I sat in this state of mind, I suddenly felt some one clap 
me on the shoulder, and heard a voice say : “ Ha ! comrade of the 
dingle, what chance has brought you into these parts ? ” I turned 
round, and beheld a man in the dress of a postillion, whom I 
instantly recognised as he to whom I had rendered assistance on 
the night of the storm. 

“ Ah ! ” said I, “is it you? I am glad to see you, for I was 
feeling very lonely and melancholy.” 

“ Lonely and melancholy,” he replied, “ how is that ? how can 
any one be lonely and melancholy with such a noble horse as that 
you hold by the bridle ? ” 



The “Swan” Hotel, Stafford (“My Inn— a very large building with an archway 





MY INN: 


1825.] 


li 


ti 


137 


“The horse,” said I, “is one cause of my melancholy, for I 
know not in the world what to do with it.” 

“ Is it your own ? ” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ I may call it my own, though I borrowed the 
money to purchase it.” 

“ Well, why don’t you sell it ? ” 

“ It is not always easy to find a purchaser for a horse like this,” 
said I ; “ can you recommend me one ? ” 

“T ? Why no, not exactly ; but you’ll find a purchaser shortly 
— pooh ! if you have no other cause for disquiet than that horse, 
cheer up, man, don’t be cast down. Have you nothing else on 
your mind? By-the-bye, what’s become of the young woman 
you were keeping company with in that queer lodging place of 
yours ? ” 

“ She has left me,” said I. 

“You quarrelled, I suppose?” 

“No,” said I, “we did not exactly quarrel, but we are 
parted.” 

“Well,” replied he, “but you will soon come together again.” 

“No,” said I, “ we are parted for ever.” 

“For ever! Pooh! you little know how people sometimes 
come together again who think they are parted for ever. Here’s 
something on that point relating to myself. You remember, when 
I told you my story in that dingle of yours, that I mentioned a 
young woman, my fellow-servant when I lived with the English 
family in Mumbo Jumbo’s town, and how she and I, when our 
foolish governors were thinking of changing their religion, agreed 
to stand by each other, and be true to old Church of England, 
and to give our governors warning, provided they tried to make us 
renegades. Well, she and I parted soon after that, and never 
thought to meet again, yet we met the other day in the fields, for 
she lately came to live with a great family not far from here, and 
we have since agreed to marry, to take a little farm, for we have 
both a trifle of money, and live together till ‘ death us do part 
So much for parting for ever ! But what do I mean by keeping 
you broiling in the sun with your horse’s bridle in your hand, and 
you on my own ground ? Do you know where you are ? Why, 
that great house is my inn, that is, it’s my master’s, the best fellow 
in . Come along, you and your horse, both will find a wel- 

come at my inn.” 

Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were 
coaches, chaises, and a great many people ; taking my horse from 
me, he led it into a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack ; he 


138 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


then conducted me into a postillion’s keeping-room, which at that 
time chanced to be empty, and he then fetched a pot of beer and 
sat down by me. 

After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, 
and I told him frankly that I did not know ; whereupon he 
observed that, provided I had no objection, he had little doubt 
that I could be accommodated for some time at his inn. “ Our 
upper ostler,” said he, “ died about a week ago; he was a clever 
fellow, and, besides his trade, understood reading and accounts.” 

“ Dear me,” said I, interrupting him, “ I am not fitted for the 
place of ostler ; moreover, I refused the place of ostler at a public- 
house, which was offered to me only a few days ago.” The postillion 
burst into a laugh. “ Ostler at a public-house, indeed ! why, you 
would not compare a berth at a place like that with the situation 
of ostler at my inn, the first road-house in England ! However, I 
was not thinking of the place of ostler for you ; you are, as you 
say, not fitted for it, at any rate, not at a house like this. We 
have, moreover, the best under-ostler in all England — old Bill, 
with the drawback that he is rather fond of drink. We could 
make shift with him very well, provided we could fall in with a 
man of writing and figures, who could give an account of the hay 
and corn which comes in and goes out, and wouldn’t object to 
give a look occasionally at the yard. Now it appears to me that 
you are just such a kind of man, and, if you will allow me to 
speak to the governor, I don’t doubt that he will gladly take you, 
as he feels kindly disposed towards you from what he has heard 
me say concerning you.” 

“And what should I do with my horse? ” said I. 

“ The horse need give you no uneasiness,” said the postillion ; 
“ I know he will be welcome here both for bed and manger, and, 
perhaps, in a little time you may find a purchaser, as a vast num- 
ber of sporting people frequent this house.” I offered two or three 
more objections, which the postillion overcame with great force of 
argument, and the pot being nearly empty, he drained it to the 
bottom drop, and then starting up, left me alone. 

In about twenty minutes he returned, accompanied by a highly 
intelligent-looking individual, dressed in blue and black, with a 
particularly white cravat, and without a hat on his head ; this 
individual, whom I should have mistaken for a gentleman but for 
the intelligence depicted in his face, he introduced to me as the 
master of the inn. The master of the inn shook me warmly by 
the hand, told me that he was happy to see me in his house, and 
thanked me in the handsomest terms for the kindness I had 


1825 .] the governor. 


139 


shown to his servant in the affair of the thunderstorm. Then 
saying that he was informed I was out of employ, he assured me 
that he should be most happy to engage me to keep his hay and 
corn account, and as general superintendent of the yard, and that 
with respect to the horse, which he was told I had, he begged to 
inform me that I was perfectly at liberty to keep it at the inn upon 
the very best, until I could find a purchaser; that with regard to 
wages — but he had no sooner mentioned wages than I cut him 
short, saying, that provided I stayed I should be most happy to 
serve him for bed and board, and requested that he would, allow 
me until the next morning to consider of his offer ; he willingly 
consented to my request, and, begging that I would call for any- 
thing I pleased, left me alone with the postillion. 

I passed that night until about ten o’clock with the postillion, 
when he left me, having to drive a family about ten miles across 
the country ; before his departure, however, I told him that I had 
determined to accept the offer of his governor, as he called him. 
At the bottom of my heart I was most happy that an offer had 
been made, which secured to myself and the animal a comfortable 
retreat at a moment when I knew not whither in the world to take 
myself and him. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


The inn, of which I had become an inhabitant, was a place of 
infinite life and bustle. Travellers of all descriptions, from all the 
cardinal points, were continually stopping at it ; and to attend to 
their wants, and minister to their convenience, an army of servants, 
of one description or other, was kept; waiters, chambermaids, 
grooms, postillions, shoe-blacks, cooks, scullions, and what not, 
for there was a barber and hair-dresser, who had been at Paris, 
and talked French with a cockney accent, the French sounding 
all the better, as no accent is so melodious as the cockney. Jacks 
creaked in the kitchens turning round spits, on which large joints 
of meat piped and smoked before the great big fires. There was 
running up and down stairs, and along galleries, slamming of 
doors, cries of “ Coming, sir,” and “ Please to step this way, 
ma’am,” during eighteen hours of the four-and-twenty. Truly a 
very great place for life and bustle was this inn. And often in 
after life, when lonely and melancholy, I have called up the time 
I spent there, and never failed to become cheerful from the 
recollection. 

I found the master of the house a very kind and civil person. 
Before being an innkeeper he had been in some other line of 
business ; but on the death of the former proprietor of the inn had 
married his widow, who was still alive, but, being somewhat 
infirm, lived in a retired part of the house. I have said that he 
was kind and civil; he was, however, not one of those people 
who suffer themselves to be made fools of by anybody ; he knew 
his customers, and had a calm, clear eye, which would look 
through a man without seeming to do so. The accommodation 
of his house was of the very best description ; his wines were good, 
his viands equally so, and his charges not immoderate ; though 
he very properly took care of himself. He was no vulgar inn- 
keeper, had a host of friends, and deserved them all. During the 
time I lived with him, he was presented by a large assemblage of 
his friends and customers with a dinner at his own house, which 
was very costly, and at which the best Of wines were sported, and 
after the dinnef with a piece of plate estimated at fifty guineas. 


1825.] 


HAY AND CORN. 


141 


He received the plate, made a neat speech of thanks, and when 
the bill was called for, made another neat speech, in which he 
refused to receive one farthing for the entertainment, ordering in 
at the same time two dozen more of the best champagne, and 
sitting down amidst uproarious applause, and cries of “ You shall 
be no loser by it ! ” Nothing very wonderful in such conduct, 
some people will say ; I don’t say there is, nor have I any inten- 
tion to endeavour to persuade the reader that the landlord was a 
Carlo Borromeo ; he merely gave a quid pro quo ; but it is not 
every person who will give you a quid pro quo. Had he been a 
vulgar publican, he would have sent in a swinging bill after receiv- 
ing the plate ; “ but then no vulgar publican would have been 
presented with plate ” ; perhaps not, but many a vulgar public 
character has been presented with plate, whose admirers never 
received a quid pro quo, except in the shape of a swinging bill. 

I found my duties of distributing hay and corn, and keeping 
an account thereof, anything but disagreeable, particularly after I 
had acquired the good-will of the old ostler, who at first looked 
upon me with rather an evil eye, considering me somewhat in the 
light of one who had usurped an office which belonged to himself 
by the right of succession ; but there was little gall in the old 
fellow, and, by speaking kindly to him, never giving myself any 
airs of assumption, but, above all, by frequently reading the 
newspapers to him — for though passionately fond of news and 
politics, he was unable to read — I soon succeeded in placing 
myself on excellent terms with him. A regular character was that 
old ostler; he was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had seen a great 
deal of life in the vicinity of London, to which, on the death of 
his parents, who were very poor people, he went at a very early 
age. Amongst other places where he had served as ostler was a 
small inn at Hounslow, much frequented by highwaymen, whose 
exploits he was fond of narrating, especially those of Jerry 
Abershaw, who, he said, was a capital rider ; and on hearing his 
accounts of that worthy, I half regretted that the old fellow had 
not been in London, and I had not formed his acquaintance 
about the time I was thinking of writing the life of the said 
Abershaw, not doubting that with his assistance, I could have 
produced a book at least as remarkable as the life and adventures 
of that entirely imaginary personage Joseph Sell ; perhaps, how- 
ever, I was mistaken ; ?nd whenever Abershaw’s life shall appear 
before the public — and my publisher credibly informs me that it 
has not yet appeared — I beg and entreat the public to state which 
it likes best, the life of Abershaw or that of Sell, for which latter 


142 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


work I am informed that during the last few months there has 
been a prodigious demand. My old friend, however, after talking 
of Abershaw, would frequently add, that, good rider as Abershaw 
certainly was, he was decidedly inferior to Richard Ferguson, 
generally called Galloping Dick, who was a pal of Abershaw’s, 
and had enjoyed a career as long, and nearly as remarkable as his 
own. I learned from him that both were capital customers at the 
Hounslow inn, and that he had frequently drank with them in the 
corn-room. He said that no man could desire more jolly or 
entertaining companions over a glass of “ summut,” but that upon 
the road it was anything but desirable to meet them ; there they 
were terrible, cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles of 
their pistols into people’s mouths ; and at this part of his locution 
the old man winked, and said, in a somewhat lower voice, that 
upon the whole they were right in doing so, and that when a 
person had once made up his mind to become a highwayman, his 
best policy was to go the whole hog, fearing nothing, but 
making everybody afraid of him ; that people never thought of 
resisting a savage-faced, foul-mouthed highwayman, and if he were 
taken, were afraid to bear witness against him, lest he should get 
off and cut their throats some time or other upon the roads ; 
whereas people would resist being robbed by a sneaking, pale- 
visaged rascal, and would swear bodily against him on the first 
opportunity, adding, that Abershaw and Ferguson, two most 
awful fellows, had enjoyed a long career, whereas two disbanded 
officers of the army, who wished to rob a coach like gentlemen, 
had begged the passengers’ pardon, and talked of hard necessity, 
had been set upon by the passengers themselves, amongst whom 
were three women, pulled from their horses, conducted to Maid- 
stone, and hanged with as little pity as such contemptible fellows 
deserved. “ There is nothing like going the whole hog,” he 
repeated, “ and if ever I had been a highwayman, I would have 
done so ; I should have thought myself all the more safe ; and, 
moreover, shouldn’t have despised myself. To curry favour with 
those you are robbing, sometimes at the expense of your own com- 
rades, as I have known fellows do, why, it is the greatest ” 

“So it is,” interposed my friend the postillion, who chanced 
to be present at a considerable part of the old ostler’s discourse ; 
“it is, as you say, the greatest of humbug, and merely, after all, 
gets a fellow into trouble ; but no regular bred highwayman would 
do it. I say, George, catch the Pope of Rome trying to curry 
favour with anybody he robs ; catch old Mumbo Jumbo currying 
favour with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dean and 


1825.] 


HIGHWAYMEN. 


143 


Chapter, should he meet them in a stage-coach ; it would be with 
him, Bricconi abbasso, as he knocked their teeth out with the 
butt of his trombone ; and the old regular-built ruffian would be 
all the safer for it, as Bill would say, as ten to one the Archbishop 
and Chapter, after such a spice of his quality, would be afraid to 
swear against him, and to hang him, even if he were in their 
power, though that would be the proper way ; for, if it is the 
greatest of all humbug for a highwayman to curry favour with 
those he robs, the next greatest is to try to curry favour with 
a highwayman when you have got him, by letting him off.” 

Finding the old man so well acquainted with the history of 
highwaymen, and taking considerable interest in the subject, 
having myself edited a book containing the lives of many remark- 
able people who had figured on the highway, I forthwith asked him 
how it was that the trade of highwaymen had become extinct in 
England, as at present we never heard of any one following it. 
Whereupon he told me that many causes had contributed to bring 
about that result ; the principal of which were the following : the 
refusal to license houses which were known to afford shelter 
to highwaymen, which, amongst many others, had caused the inn 
at Hounslow to be closed ; the inclosure of many a wild heath in 
the country, on which they were in the habit of lurking, and 
particularly the establishing in the neighbourhood of London of 
a well-armed mounted patrol, who rode the highwaymen down, 
and delivered them up to justice, which hanged them without 
ceremony. 

“ And that would be the way to deal with Mumbo Jumbo and 
his gang,” said the postillion, “ should they show their visages in 
these realms ; and I hear by the newspapers that they are be- 
coming every day more desperate. Take away the licence from 
their public-houses, cut down the rookeries and shadowy old 
avenues in which they are fond of lying in wait, in order to sally 
out upon people as they pass in the roads ; but, above all, establish 
a good mounted police to ride after the ruffians and drag them by 
the scruff of the neck to the next clink, where they might lie till 
they could be properly dealt with by law ; instead of which, the 
Government are repealing the wise old laws enacted against such 
characters, giving fresh licenses every day to their public-houses, 
and saying that it would be a pity to cut down their rookeries and 
thickets because they look so very picturesque ; and, in fact, giving 
them all kind of encouragement ; why, if such behaviour is not 
enough to drive an honest man mad, I know not what is. It is of 
no use talking ; I only wish the power were in my hands, and if 


144 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


I did not make short work of them, might I be a mere jackass 
postillion all the remainder of my life.” 

Besides acquiring from the ancient ostler a great deal of curious 
information respecting the ways and habits of the heroes of the 
road, with whom he had come in contact in the early portion of 
his life, I picked up from him many excellent hints relating to the 
art of grooming horses. Whilst at the inn, I frequently groomed 
the stage and post-horses, and those driven up by travellers in 
their gigs : I was not compelled, nor indeed expected, to do so, 
but I took pleasure in the occupation ; and I remember at tha^ 
period one of the principal objects of my ambition was to be a 
first-rate groom, and to make the skins of the creatures I took in 
hand look sleek and glossy like those of moles. I have said that I 
derived valuable hints from the old man, and, indeed, became a 
very tolerable groom, but there was a certain finishing touch which 
I could never learn from him, though he possessed it himself, and 
which I could never attain to by my own endeavours ; though my 
want of success certainly did not proceed from want of application, 
for I have rubbed the horses down, purring and buzzing all 
the time, after the genuine ostler fashion, until the perspiration fell 
in heavy drops upon my shoes, and when I had done my best and 
asked the old fellow what he thought of my work, I could never 
extract from him more than a kind of grunt, which might be 
translated, “Not so very bad, but I have seen a horse groomed 
much better,” which leads me to suppose that a person, in order 
to be a first-rate groom, must have something in him when he is 
born which I had not, and, indeed, which many other people 
have not who pretend to be grooms. What does the reader 
think ? 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Of one thing I am certain, that the reader must be much delighted 
with the wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of 
these pages are redolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours 
exhaled from those of some of my contemporaries, especially of 
those who pretend to be of the highly fashionable class, and who 
treat of reception-rooms, well may they be styled so, in which 
dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops, bishops, mayors, 
mayoresses — not forgetting the writers themselves, both male and 
female — congregate and press upon one another ; how cheering, 
how refreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such 
an atmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn. 
Oh ! the reader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old 
ostler, for which he or she will doubtless exclaim, “ Much obliged ! ” 
— and, lest I should forget to perform my promise, the reader shall 
have it now. 

I shall never forget an harangue from the mouth of the old 
man, which I listened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the 
threshold of the stable, after having attended to some of the wants 
of a batch of coach-horses. It related to the manner in which a 
gentleman should take care of his horse and self, whilst engaged 
in a journey on horseback, and was addressed to myself, on the 
supposition of my one day coming to an estate, and of course 
becoming a gentleman. 

“ When you are a gentleman,” said he, “ should you ever wish 
to take a journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have 
a much better than the one you have here eating its fill in the box 
yonder — I wonder, by-the-bye, how you ever came by it — you 
can’t do better than follow the advice I am about to give you, both 
with respect to your animal and yourself. Before you start, 
merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn and a little 
water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a pint of water 
yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better during the 
whole day ; then you may walk and trot your ammal for about ten 
miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down 
and see your horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed 

(145) 10 


146 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


him till you come. If the ostler happens to be a dog-lancier, and 
has an English terrier dog like that of mine there, say what a nice 
dog it is, and praise its black and tawn ; and if he does not 
happen to be a dog-fancier, ask him how he’s getting on, and 
whether he ever knew worse times ; that kind of thing will please 
the ostler, and he will let you do just what you please with your 
own horse, and when your back is turned, he’ll say to his comrades 
what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has seen you 
before ; then go and sit down to breakfast, and, before you have 
finished breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of 
corn ; chat with the ostler two or three minutes, till your horse has 
taken the shine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking 
any of it away when your back is turned, for such things are some- 
times done — not that 1 ever did such a thing myself when I was 
at the inn at Hounslow. Oh, dear me, no 1 Then go and finish 
your breakfast, and when you have finished your breakfast and 
called for the newspaper, go and water your horse, letting him have 
one pailful, then give him another feed of corn, and enter into 
discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the prime minister, 
and the like ; and when your horse has once more taken the shine 
out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper, and I 
hope for your sake it may be the Globe^ for that’s the best paper 
going, then pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you 
will pay without counting it up, supposing you to be a gentleman. 
Give the waiter sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your 
horse is out, pay for the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then 
mount your horse and walk him gently for five miles ; and whilst 
you are walking him in this manner, it may be as well to tell you 
to take care that you do not let him down and smash his knees, 
more especially if the road be a particularly good one, for it is not 
at a desperate hiverman pace, and over very bad roads, that a 
horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on your particularly 
nice road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and is half 
asleep, like the gemman on his back ; well, at the end of the five 
miles, when the horse has digested his food, and is all right, you 
may begin to push your horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, 
and then walking him a quarter of a one, that his wind may be not 
distressed ; and you may go on in that way for thirty miles, never 
galloping, of course, for none but fools or hivermen ever gallop 
horses on roads ; and at the end of that distance you may stop at 
some other nice ihn to dinner. 1 say, when your horse is led into 
the stable, after that same thirty miles’ trotting and walking, don’t 
let the saddle be whisked off at once, for if you do your horse will 


1825.] 


STABLE HARTSHORN. 


147 


have such a sore back as will frighten you, but let your saddle 
remain on your horse’s back, with the girths loosened, till after his 
next feed of corn, and be sure that he has no corn, much less 
water, till after a long hour and more ; after he is fed he may be 
watered to the tune of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him 
a regular rub down ; you may then sit down to dinner, and when 
you have dined get up and see to your horse as you did after 
breakfast, in fact, you must do much after the same fashion you 
did at t’other inn ; see to your horse, and by no means disoblige 
the ostler. So when you have seen to your horse a second time, 
you will sit down to your bottle of wine — supposing you to be a 
gentleman — and after you have finished it, and your argument about 
the corn-laws, with any commercial gentleman who happens to be 
in the room, you may mount your horse again, not forgetting to do 
the proper thing to the waiter and ostler ; you may mount your 
horse again and ride him, as you did before, for about five and 
twenty miles, at the end of which you may put up for the night 
after a very fair day’s journey, for no gentleman, supposing he 
weighs sixteen stone, as I suppose you will by the time you become 
a gentleman, ought to ride a horse more than sixty-five miles in 
one day, provided he has any regard for his* horse’s back, or his 
own either. See to your horse at night, and have him well rubbed 
down. The next day you may ride your horse forty miles, just as 
you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles will bring 
you to your journey’s end, unless your journey be a plaguy long 
one, and if so, never ride your horse more than five and thirty 
miles a day, always, however, seeing him well fed, and taking more 
care of him than yourself ; which is but right and reasonable, 
seeing as how the horse is the best animal of the two.” 

“When you are a gentleman,” said he, after a pause, “the 
first thing you must think about is to provide yourself with a good 
horse for your own particular riding ; you will perhaps keep a 
coach and pair, but they will be less your own than your lady’s, 
should you have one, and your young gentry, should you have 
any ; or, if you have neither, for madam, your housekeeper, and 
the upper female servants ; so you need trouble your head less 
about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay away 
your money for screws ; but be sure you get a good horse for 
your own riding ; and that you may have a good chance of having 
a good one, buy one that’s young and has plenty oi belly — a little 
more that the one has which you now have, though you are not 
yet a gentleman ; you will, of course, 4ook to his head, his withers, 
legs and other points, but never buy a horse at any price that has 


148 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


not plenty of belly ; no horse that has not belly is ever a good 
feeder, and a horse that a’n’t a good feeder, can’t be a good 
horse ; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the belly behind ; 
a horse of that description can’t feed, and can never carry sixteen 
stone. 

“ So when you have got such a horse be proud of it — as I 
daresay you are of the one you have now — and wherever you go 
swear there a’n’t another to match it in the country, and if any- 
body gives you the lie, take him by the nose and tweak it off, just 
as you would do if anybody were to speak ill of your lady, or, for 
want of her, of your housekeeper. Take care of your horse, as 
you would of the apple of your eye — I am sure I would if I were 
a gentleman, which I don’t ever expect to be, and hardly wish, 
seeing as how I am sixty-nine, and am rather too old to ride — yes, 
cherish and take care of your horse as perhaps the best friend you 
have in the world ; for, after all, who will carry you through thick 
and thin as your horse will ? not your gentlemen friends, I warrant, 
nor your housekeeper, nor your upper servants, male or female ; 
perhaps your lady would, that is, if she is a whopper, and one of 
the right sort ; the others would be more likely to take up mud and 
pelt you with it, provided they saw you in trouble, than to help you. 
So take care of your horse, and feed him every day with your own 
hands ; give him three-quarters of a peck of corn each day, mixed 
up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besides one hundred- 
weight of hay in the course of a week ; some say that the hay 
should be hardland hay, because it is wholesomest, but I say, let 
it be clover hay, because the horse likes it best ; give him through 
summer and winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in 
summer and in winter hot ; ride him gently about the neighbour- 
hood every day, by which means you will give exercise to yourself 
and horse, and, moreover, have the satisfaction of exhibiting your 
self and your horse to advantage, and hearing, perhaps, the men 
say what a fine horse, and the ladies saying what a fine man : never 
let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten to one, if you do, 
your groom will be wishing to show olf before company, and will 
fling your horse down. I was groom to a gemman before I 
went to the inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth 
ninety guineas, by endeavouring to show off before some ladies 
that I met on the road. Turn your horse out to grass throughout 
May and the first part of June, for then the grass is sweetest, 
and the flies don’t sting so bad as they do later in summer ; 
afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swale of the 
morn and the evening ; after September the grass is good for 


1825.] 


ABOU ORSES. 


149 


little, lash and sour at best ; every horse should go out to grass, 
if not his blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind 
is apt to become affected, but he ought to be kept as much as 
possible from the heat and flies, always got up at night, and never 
turned out late in the year — Lord ! if I had always such a nice 
attentive person to listen to me as you are, I could go on talking 
about ’orses to the end of time.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


I LIVED on very good terms, not only with the master and the old 
ostler, but with all the domestics and hangers on at the inn, 
waiters, chambermaids, cooks and scullions, not forgetting the 
“ boots,” of which there were three. As for the postillions, I was 
sworn brother with them all, and some of them went so far as to 
swear that I was the best fellow in the world ; for which high 
opinion entertained by them of me, I believe I was principally 
indebted to the good account; their comrade gave of me, whom I 
had so hospitably received in the dingle. I repeat that I lived on 
good terms with all the people connected with the inn, and was 
noticed and spoken kindly to by some of the guests — especially 
by that class termed commercial travellers — all of whom were 
great friends and patronisers of the landlord, and were the princi- 
pal promoters of the dinner, and subscribers to the gift- of plate, 
which I have already spoken of, the whole fraternity striking me 
as the jolliest set of fellows imaginable, the best customers to an 
inn, and the most liberal to servants ; there was one description 
of persons, however, frequenting the inn, which I did not like at 
all, and which I did not get on well with, and these people were 
the stage-coachmen. 

The stage-coachmen of England, at the time of which I am 
speaking, considered themselves mighty fine gentry, nay, I verily 
believe the most important personages of the realm, and their 
entertaining this high opinion of themselves can scarcely be 
wondered at ; they were low fellows, but masters at driving ; 
driving was in fashion, and sprigs of nobility used to dress as 
coachmen and imitate the slang and behaviour of coachmen, 
from whom occasionally they would take lessons in driving as 
they sat beside them on the box, which post of honour any, sprig 
of nobility who happened to take a place on a coach claimed as his 
unquestionable right ; and then these sprigs would smoke cigars 
and drink sherry with the coachmen in bar-rooms, and on the 
road; and, when bidding them farewell, would give them a guinea 
or a half-guinea, and shake them by the hand, so that these fellows, 
being low fellows, very naturally thought no small liquor of them- 


STAGE COACHMEN. 


1825.] 


151 


selves, but would talk familiarly of their friends lords so and so, 
the honourable misters so and so, and Sir Harry and Sir Charles, 
and be wonderfully saucy to any one who was not a lord, or 
something of the kind ; and this high opinion of themselves 
received daily augmentation from the servile homage paid them 
by the generality of the untitled male passengers, especially those 
on the fore part of the coach, who used to contend for the honom 
of sitting on the box with the coachman when no sprig was nigh 
to put in his claim. Oh ! what servile homage these craven 
creatures did pay these same coach fellows, more especially after 
witnessing this or t’other act of brutality practised upon the weak 
and unoffending — upon some poor friendless woman travelling 
with but little money, and perhaps a brace of hungry children 
with her, or upon some thin and half-starved man travelling on 
the hind part of the coach from London to Liverpool with only 
eighteen pence in his pocket after his fare was paid, to defray his 
expenses on the road ; for as the insolence of these knights was 
vast, so was their rapacity enormous ; they had been so long 
accustomed to have crowns and half-crowns rained upon them by 
their admirers and flatterers, that they would look at a shilling, for 
which many an honest labourer was happy to toil for ten hours 
under a broiling sun, with the utmost contempt; would blow upon 
it derisively, or fillip it into the air before they pocketed it ; but 
when nothing was given them, as would occasionally happen — for 
how could they receive from those who had nothing? and nobody 
w^as bound to give them anything, as they had certain wages from 
their employers — then what a scene would ensue ! Truly the 
brutality and rapacious insolence of English coachmen had 
reached a climax ; it was time that these fellows should be dis- 
enchanted, and the time — thank Heaven ! — was not far distant. 
Let the craven dastards who used to curry favour with them, and 
applaud their brutality, lament their loss now that they and their 
vehicles have disappeared from the roads ; I, who have ever been 
an enemy to insolence, cruelty and tyranny, loathe their memory, 
and, what is more, am not afraid to say so, well aware of the 
storm of vituperation, partly learnt from them, which I may expect 
from those who used to fall down and worship them. 

Amongst the coachmen who frequented the inn was one who 
was called “the bang-up coachman”. He drove to our inn, in 
the fore part of every day, one of what were called the fast coaches, 
and afterwards took back the corresponding vehicle. He stayed 
at our house about tw'enty minutes, during which time the 
passengers of the coach which he was to return with dined ; those 


152 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


at least who were inclined for dinner, and could pay for it. He 
derived his sobriquet of “ the bang-up coachman ” partly from 
his being dressed in the extremity of coach dandyism, and partly 
from the peculiar insolence of his manner, and the unmerciful 
fashion in which he was in the habit of lashing on the poor horses 
committed to his charge. He was a large, tall fellow, of about 
thirty, with a face which, had it not been bloated by excess, and 
insolence and cruelty stamped most visibly upon it, might have 
been called good-looking. His insolence* indeed was so great, 
that he was hated by all the minor fry connected with coaches 
along the road upon which he drove, especially the ostlers, whom 
he was continually abusing or finding fault with. Many was the 
hearty curse which he received when his back was turned ; but 
the generality of people were much afraid of him, for he was a 
swinging, strong fellow, and had the reputation of being a fighter, 
and in one or two instances had beaten in a barbarous manner 
individuals who had quarrelled with him. 

I was nearly having a fracas with this worthy. One day, after 
he had been drinking sherry with a sprig, he swaggered into the 
yard where I happened to be standing ; just then a waiter came 
by carrying upon a tray part of a splendid Cheshire cheese, with 
a knife, plate and napkin. Stopping the waiter, the coachman 
cut with the knife a tolerably large lump out of the very middle of 
the cheese, stuck it on the end of the knife, and putting it to his 
mouth nibbled a slight piece off it, and then, tossing the rest away 
with disdain, flung the knife down upon the tray, motioning the 
waiter to proceed; I wish,” said I, “you may not want before 
you die what you have just flung away,” whereupon the fellow 
turned furiously towards me ; just then, however, his coach being 
standing at the door, there was a cry for coachman, so that he 
was forced to depart, contenting himself for the present with 
shaking his fist at me, and threatening to serve me out on the first 
opportunity; before, however, the opportunity occurred he himself 
got served out in a most unexpected manner. 

The day after this incident he drove his coach to the inn, and 
after having dismounted and received the contributions of the 
generality of the passengers, he strutted up, with a cigar in his 
mouth, to an individual who had come with him, and who had 
just asked me a question with respect to the direction of a village 
about three miles off, to which he was going. “ Remember the 
coachman,” said the knight of the box to this individual, who was 
a thin person of about sixty, with a white hat, rather shabby black 
coat, and buff-coloured trousers, and who held an umbrella, and 


1825.] 


A BULLY. 


153 


a small bundle in his hand. “ If you expect me to give you 
anything,” said he to the coachman, “ you are mistaken ; I will 
give you nothing. You have been very insolent to me as I rode 
behind you on the coach, and have encouraged two or three 
trumpery fellows, who rode along with you, to cut scurvy jokes at 
my expense, and now you come to me for money ; I am not so 
poor but I could have given you a shilling had you been civil ; as 
it is, I will give you nothing.” “ Oh ! you won’t, won’t you ? ” 
said the coachman ; “ dear me ! I hope I shan’t starve because 
you won’t give me anything — a shilling ! why, I could afford to 
give you twenty if I thought fit, you pauper ! civil to you, indeed ! 
things are come to a fine pass if I need be civil to you ! Do you 
know who you are. speaking ta? why, the best lords in the country 
are proud to speak to me. Why, it was only the other day that 

the Marquis of said to me ” and then he went on to say 

what the Marquis said to him ; after which, flinging down his cigar, 
he strutted up the road, swearing to himself about paupers. 

“You say it is three miles to ,” said the individual to me ; 

“ I think I shall light my pipe, and smoke it as I go along.” 
Thereupon he took out from a side-pocket a tobacco-box and short 
meerschaum pipe, and implements for striking a light, filled his 
pipe, lighted it, and commenced smoking. Presently the coach- 
man drew near. I saw at once there was mischief in his eye ; the 
man smoking was standing with his back towards him, and he 
came so nigh to him, seemingly purposely, that as he passed a 
puff of smoke came of necessity against his face. “ What do you 
mean by smoking in my face ? ” said he, striking the pipe of the 
elderly individual out of his mouth. The other, without mani- 
festing much surprise, said : " I thank you ; if you will wait a 
minute, I will give you a receipt for that favour ” ; then gathering 
up his pipe, and taking off his coat and hat, he laid them on a 
stepping-block which stood near, and rubbing his hands together, 
he advanced towards the coachman in an attitude of offence, 
holding his hands crossed very near to his face. The coachman, 
who probably expected anything but such a movement from a 
person of the age and appearance of the individual whom he had 
insulted, stood for a moment motionless with surprise ; but, recol- 
lecting himself, he pointed at him derisively with his finger ; the 
next moment, however, the other was close upon him, had struck 
aside the extended hand with his left fist, and given him a severe 
blow on the nose with his right, which he immediately followed by 
a left-hand blow in the eye ; then drawing his body slightly back- 
ward, with the velocity of lightning he struck the coachn:jan full 


154 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


in the mouth, and the last blow was the severest of all, for it cut 
the coachman’s lips nearly through ; blows so quickly and sharply 
dealt I had never seen. The coachman reeled like a fir-tree in a 
gale, and seemed nearly unsensed. “ Ho ! what’s this ? a fight ! 
a fight ! ” sounded from a dozen voices, and people came running 
from all directions to see what was going on. The coachman 
coming somewhat to himself, disencumbered himself of his coat 
and hat ; and, encouraged by two or three of his brothers of the 
whip, showed some symptoms of fighting, endeavouring to close 
with his foe, but the attempt was vain, his foe was not to be closed 
with ; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off the blows of 
his opponent with the greatest san^-froid, always using the guard 
which I have already described, and putting in, in return, short, 
chopping blows with the swiftness of lightning. In a very fewminutes 
the countenance of the coachman was literally cut to pieces, and 
several of his teeth were dislodged ; at length he gave in ; ^ung 
with mortification, however, he repented, and asked for another 
round ; it was granted, to his own complete demolition. The 
coachman did not drive his coach back that day, he did not 
appear on the box again for a week ; but he never held up his 
head afterwards. Before I quitted the inn, he had disappeared from 
the road, going no one knew where. 

The coachman, as I have said before, was very much disliked 
upon the road, but there was an esprit de corps amongst the 
coachmen, and those who stood by did not like to see their 
brother chastised in such tremendous fashion. “ I never saw such 
a fight before,” said one. “ Fight ! why, I don’t call it a fight at 
all ; this chap here ha’n’t got a scratch, whereas Tom is cut to 
pieces ; it is all along of that guard of his ; if Tom could have 
got within his guard he would have soon served the old chap out.” 
“ So he would,” said another ; “ it was all owing to that guard. 
However, I think I see into it, and if I had not to drive this 
afternoon, I would have a turn with the old fellow and soon serve 
him out.” “ I will fight him now for a guinea,” said the other 
coachman, half taking off his coat ; observing, however, that the 
elderly individual made a motion towards him, he hitched it upon 
his shoulder again, and added, “ that is, if he had not been fight- 
ing already, but as it is, I am above taking an advantage, especially 
of such a poor old creature as that.” And when he had said this, 
he looked around him, and there was a feeble titter of approbation 
from two or three of the craven crew, who were in the habit of 
currying favour with the coachmen. The elderly individual 
looked for a rnoment at these last, and then said : “ To such fellows 


1825.] 


BROUGHTON’S GUARD. 


155 


as you I have nothing to say ” ; then turning to the coachmen, 
“ and as for you,” he said, “ ye cowardly bullies, I have but one 
word, which is, that your reign upon the roads is nearly over, and 
that a time is coming when ye will no longer be wanted or employed 
in your present capacity, when ye will either have to drive dung- 
carts, assist as ostlers at village ale-houses, or rot in the workhouse.” 
Then putting on his coat and hat, and taking up his bundle, not 
forgetting his meerschaum, and the rest of his smoking apparatus, 
he departed on his way. Filled with curiosity, I followed him. 

“ I am quite astonished that you should be able to use your 
hands in the way you have done,” said I, as I walked with this 
individual in the direction in which he was bound. 

“ I will tell you how I became able to do so,” said the elderly 
individual, proceeding to fill and light his pipe as he walked along. 

My father was a journeyman engraver, who lived in a very 
riotous neighbourhood in the outskirts of London. Wishing to 
give me something of an education, he sent me to a day-school, two 
or three streets distant from where we lived, and there, being 
rather a puny boy, I suffered much persecution from my school- 
fellows, who were a very blackguard set. One day, as I was 
running home, with one of my tormentors pursuing me, old 
Sergeant Broughton, the retired fighting-man, seized me by the 
arm ” 

“Dear me,” said I, “has it ever been your luck to be ac- 
quainted with Sergeant Broughton ? ” 

“ You may well call it luck,” said the elder individual ; but for him 
I should never have been able to make my way through the world. 
He lived only four doors from our house ; so, as I was running 
along the street, with my tyrant behind me. Sergeant Broughton 
seized me by the arm. ‘ Stop, my boy,’ said he, ‘ I have frequently 
seen that scamp ill-treating you ; now I will teach you how to 
send him home with a bloody nose ; down with your bag of books ; 
and now, my game chick,’ whispered he to me, placing himself 
between me and my adversary, so that he could not observe his 
motions, ^ clench your fist in this manner, and hold your arms in 
this, and when he strikes at you, move them as I now show you, 
and he can’t hurt you ; now, don’t be afraid, but go at him ’. I 
confess that I was somewhat afraid, but I considered myself in 
some degree under the protection of the famous Sergeant, and, 
clenching my fist, I went at my foe, using the guard which my 
ally recommended. The result corresponded to a certain degree 
with the predictions of the Sergeant ; I gave my foe a bloody nose 
4nd a black eye, though, notwithstanding my recent lesson iri the 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


156 


art of self-defence, he contrived to give me two or three clumsy 
blows. From that moment I was the especial favourite of the Ser- 
geant, who gave me further lessons, so that in a little time I 
became a very fair boxer, beating everybody of my own size who 
attacked me. The old gentleman, however, made me promise 
never to be quarrelsome, nor to turn his instructions to account, 
except in self-defence. I have always borne in mind my promise, 
and have made it a point of conscience never to fight unless 
absolutely compelled. Folks may rail against boxing if they 
please, but being able to box may sometimes stand a quiet man 
in good stead. How should I have fared to-day, but for the 
instructions of Sergeant Broughton ? But for them, the brutal 
ruffian who insulted me must have passed unpunished. He will 
not soon forget the lesson which I have just given him — the only 
lesson he could understand. What would have been the use 
of reasoning with a fellow of that description ? Brave old 
Broughton ! I owe him much.” 

“And your manner of fighting,” said I, “was the manner 
employed by Sergeant Broughton ? ” 

“Yes,” said my new acquaintance; “it was the manner in 
which he beat every one who attempted to contend with him, till, 
in an evil hour, he entered the ring with Slack, without any training 
or preparation, and by a chance blow lost the battle to a man who 
had been beaten with ease by those who, in the hands of Brough- 
ton, appeared like so many children. It was the way of fighting 
of him who first taught Englishmen to box scientifically, who was 
the head and father of the fighters of what is now called the old 
school, the last of which were Johnson and Big Ben.” 

“ A wonderful man, that Big Ben,” said I. 

“He was so,” said the elderly individual; “but had it not 
been for Broughton, I question whether Ben would have ever been 
the fighter he was. Oh ! there was no one like old Broughton ; 
but for him I should at the present moment be sneaking along 
the road, pursued by the hissings and hootings of the dirty 
flatterers of that blackguard coachman.” 

“ What did you mean,” said I, “ by those words of yours, that 
the coachmen would speedily disappear from the roads ? ” 

“ I meant,” said he, “ that a new method of travelling is about 
to be established, which will supersede the old. I am a poor 
engraver, as my father was before me ; but engraving is an 
intellectual trade, and by following it I have been brought in 
contact with some of the cleverest men in England. It has even 
made me acquainted with the projector of the scheme, which h§ 


1825.] 


THE BRAZEN HEAD. 


157 


has told me many of the wisest heads of England have been 
dreaming of during a period of six hundred years, and which it 
seems was alluded to by a certain Brazen Head in the story-book 
of Friar Bacon, who is generally supposed to have been a wizard, 
but in reality was a great philosopher. Young man, in less than 
twenty years, by which time I shall be dead and gone, England 
will be surrounded with roads of metal, on which armies may 
travel with mighty velocity, and of which the walls of brass and 
iron by which the friar proposed to defend his native land are 
types.” He then, shaking me by the hand, proceeded on his 
way, whilst I returned to the inn. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A FEW days after the circumstance which I have last commemor- 
ated, it chanced that, as I was standing at the door of the inn, 
one of the numerous stage-coaches which were in the habit of 
stopping there, drove up, and several passengers got down. I 
had assisted a woman with a couple of children to dismount, and 
had just delivered to her a band-box, which appeared to be her 
only property, which she had begged me to fetch down from the 
roof, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a voice 
exclaim : Is it possible, old fellow, that I find you in this place ?” 
I turned round, and, wrapped in a large blue cloak, I beheld my 
good friend Francis Ardry. I shook him most warmly by the 
hand, and said : “ If you are surprised to see me, I am no less so 
to see you ; where are you bound to ? ” 

“ I am bound for L ; at any rate, I am booked for that 

sea-port,” said my friend in reply. 

“ I am sorry for it,” said I, “ for in that case we shall have to 
part in a quarter of an hour, the coach by which you came 
stopping no longer.” 

“ And whither are you bound ? ” demanded my friend. 

“lam stopping at present in this house, quite undetermined as 
to what to do.” 

“Then come along with me,” said Francis Ardry. 

“ That I can scarcely do,” said I ; “ I have a horse in the 

stall which I cannot afford to ruin by racing to L by the side 

of your coach.” 

My friend mused for a moment : “ I have no particular 

business at L ,” said he ; “I was merely going thither to pass 

a day or two, till an affair, in which I am deeply interested, at 

C- shall come off. I think I shall stay with you for four-and- 

twenty hours as least ; I have been rather melancholy of late, and 
cannot afford to part with a friend like you at the present moment ; 
it is an unexpected piece of good fortune to have met you ; and I 
have not been very fortunate of late,” he added, sighing. 

“ Well,” said I, “ I am glad to see you once more, whether 
fortunate or not ; where is your baggage ?” 


FRANCIS ARDRY. 


159 


1825.] 


“ Yon trunk is mine,” said Francis, pointing to a trunk of 
black Russian leather upon the coach. 

“ We will soon have it down,” said I ; and at a word which I 
gave to one of the hangers-on of the inn, the trunk was taken from 
the top of the coach. Now,” said I to Francis Ardry, “ follow 
me, I am a person of some authority in this house ; ” thereupon I 
led Francis Ardry into the house, and a word which I said to a 
waiter forthwith installed Francis Ardry in a comfortable private 
sitting-room, and his trunk in the very best sleeping-room of our 
extensive establishment. 

It was now about one o’clock : Francis Ardry ordered dinner 
for two, to be ready at four, and a pint of sherry to be brought 
forthwith, which I requested my friend the waiter might be the 
very best, and which in effect turned out as I requested ; we sat 
down, and when we had drunk to each other’s health, Frank re- 
quested me to make known to him how I had contrived to free 
myself from my embarrassments in London, what I had been about 
since I quitted that city, and the present posture of my affairs. 

I related to Francis Ardry how I had composed the Zi/e of 
Joseph Sell, and how the sale of it to the bookseller had enabled 
me to quit London with money in my pocket, which had supported 
me during a long course of ramble in the country, into the 
particulars of which I, however, did not enter with any consider- 
able degree of fulness. I summed up my account by saying that 
“ I was at present a kind of overlooker in the stables of the inn, 
had still some pounds in my purse, and, moreover, a capital horse 
in the stall.” 

“ No very agreeable posture of affairs,” said Francis Ardry, 
looking rather seriously at me. 

“ I make no complaints,” said I ; “ my prospects are not very 
bright, it is true, but sometimes I have visions both waking and 
sleeping, which, though always strange, are invariably agreeable. 
Last night, in my chamber near the hayloft, I dreamt that 1 had 
passed over an almost interminable wilderness — an enormous wall 
rose before me, the wall, methought, was the great wall of China : 
strange figures appeared to be beckoning to me from the top of the 
wall ; such visions are not exactly to be sneered at. Not that such 
phantasmagoria,” said I, raising my voice, “ are to be compared 
for a moment with such desirable things as fashion, fine clothes, 
cheques from uncles, parliamentary interest, the love of splendid 
females. Ah ! woman’s love,” said I, and sighed. 

“ What’s the matter with the fellow?” said Francis Ardry. 

“There is nothing like it,” said 1. 


i6o 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ Like whatpy 

“ Love, divine love,” said I. 

“ Confound love,” said Francis Ardry, “ I hate the very name ; 
I have made myself a pretty fool by it, but trust me for ever being 
caught at such folly again. In an evil hour I abandoned my 
former pursuits and amusements for it ; in one morning spent at 
Joey’s there was more real pleasure than in ” 

“ Surely,” said I, “you are not hankering after dog-fighting 
again, a sport which none but the gross and unrefined care any- 
thing for? No, one’s thoughts should be occupied by something 
higher and more rational than dog-fighting ; and what better than 
love — divine love ? Oh, there’s nothing like it ! ” 

“ Pray, don’t talk nonsense,” said Francis Ardry. 

“ Nonsense ! ” said I ; “ why I was repeating, to the best of my 
recollection, what I heard you say on a former occasion.” 

“ If ever I talked such stuff,” said Francis Ardry, “ I was a 
fool ; and indeed I cannot deny that I have been one : no, there’s 
no denying that I have been a fool. What do you think ? that 
false Annette has cruelly abandoned me.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ perhaps you have yourself to thank for her 
having done so ; did you never treat her with coldness, and repay 
her marks of affectionate interest with strange fits of eccentric 
humour ? ” 

“ Lord ! how little you know of women,” said Francis Ardry ; 
“had I done as you suppose, I should probably have possessed 
her at the present moment. I treated her in a manner diametri- 
cally opposite to that. I loaded her with presents, was always 
most assiduous to her, always at her feet, as I may say, yet she 
nevertheless abandoned me — and for whom? I am almost 
ashamed to say — for a fiddler.” 

I took a glass of wine, Francis Ardry followed my example, 
and then proceeded to detail to me the treatment which he had 
experienced from Annette, and from what he said, it appeared 
that her conduct to him had been in the highest degree reprehen- 
sible ; notwithstanding he had indulged her in everything, she was 
never civil to him, but loaded him continually with taunts and 
insults, and had finally, on his being unable to supply her with 
a sum of money which she had demanded, decamped from the 
lodgings which he had taken for her, carrying with her all the 
presents which at various times he had bestowed upon her, and 
had put herself under the protection of a gentleman who played 
the bassoon at the Italian Opera, at which place it appeared that 
her sister had lately been engaged as a danseuse. My friend 


1825.]' 


GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 


161 


informed me that at first he had experienced great agony at the 
ingratitude of Annette, but at last had made up*his mind to forget 
her, and, in order more effectually to do so, had left London with 
the intention of witnessing a fight, which was shortly coming off at 
a town in these parts, between some dogs and a lion ; which combat, 
he informed me, had for some time past been looked forward to 
with intense eagerness by the gentlemen of the sporting world. 

I commended him for his resolution, at the same time advising 
him not to give up his mind entirelv to dog-fighting, as he had 
formerly done, but, when the present combat should be over, to 
return to his rhetorical studies, and above all to marry some rich 
and handsome lady on the first opportunity, as, with his person 
and expectations, he had only to sue for the hand of the daughter 
of a marquis to be successful, telling him, with a sigh, that all 
women were not Annettes, and that, upon the whole, there was 
nothing like them. To which advice he answered, that he 
intended to return to rhetoric as soon as the lion fight should be 
over, but that he never intended to marry, having had enough of 
women ; adding that he was glad he had no sister, as, with the 
feelings w*hich he entertained with respect to her sex, he should 
be unable to treat her with common affection, and concluded by 
repeating a proverb which he had learnt from an Arab whom he 
had met at Venice, to the effect, that, “ one who has been stung 
by a snake, shivers at the sight of a string 

After a little more conversation, we strolled to the stable, where 
my horse was standing ; my friend, who was a connoisseur in 
horse-flesh, surveyed the animal with attention, and after inquiring 
where and how I had obtained him, asked what I intended to do 
with him ; on my telling him that I was undetermined, and that 
I was afraid the horse was likely to prove a burden to me, he said : 
“ It is a noble animal, and if you mind what you are about, you 
may make a small fortune by him. I do not want such an animal 
myself, nor do I know any one who does ; but a great horse-fair 
will be held shortly at a place where, it is true, I have never been, 
but of which I have heard a great deal from my acquaintances, 
where it is said a first-rate horse is always sure to fetch its value ; 
that place is Horncastle, in Lincolnshire, you should take him 
thither.” 

Francis Ardry and myself dined together, and after dinner 
partook of a bottle of the best port which the inn afforded. After 
a few glasses, we had a great deal of conversation ; I again brought 
the subject of marriage and love, divine love, upon the carpet, but 
Francis almost immediately begged me to drop it ; and on my 

II 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825- 


162 


having the delicacy to comply, he reverted to dog-fighting, on which 
he talked well and learnedly ; amongst other things, he said that 
it was a princely sport of great antiquity, and quoted from Quintus 
Curtius to prove that the princes of India must have been of the 
fancy, they having, according to that author, treated Alexander to 
a fight between certain dogs and a lion. Becoming, notwithstand- 
ing my friend’s eloquence and learning, somewhat tired of the 
subject, I began to talk about Alexander. Francis Ardry said he 
was one of the two great men whom the world has produced, the 
other being Napoleon ; I replied that I believed Tamerlane was 
a greater man than either; but Francis Ardry knew nothing of 
Tamerlane, save what he had gathered from the play of Timour 
the Tartar. “No,” said he, “Alexander and Napoleon are the 
great men of the world, their names are known everywhere. 
Alexander has been dead upwards of two thousand years, but the 
very English bumpkins sometimes christen their boys by the name 
of Alexander — can there be a greater evidence of his greatness ? 
As for Napoleon, there are some parts of India in which his bust 
is worshipped.” Wishing to make up a triumvirate, I mentioned 
the name of Wellington, to which Francis Ardry merely said, 
“ bah ! ” and resumed the subject of dog-fighting. 

Francis Ardry remained at the inn during that day and the 
next, and then departed to the dog and lion fight ; I never saw 
him afterwards, and merely heard of him once after a lapse of 
some years, and what I then heard was not exactly what I could 
have wished to hear. He did not make much of the advantages 
which he possessed — a pity, for how great were those advantages — 
person, intellect, eloquence, connection, riches ! yet, with all these 
advantages, one thing highly needful seems to have been wanting 
in Francis. A desire, a craving, to perform something great and 
good. Oh ! what a vast deal may be done with intellect, courage, 
riches, accompanied by the desire of doing something great and 
good ! Why, a person may carry the blessings of civilisation and 
religion to barbarous, yet at the same time beautiful and romantic, 
lands ; and what a triumph there is for him who does so ! what 
a crown of glory ! Of far greater value than those surrounding 
the brows of your mere conquerors. Yet who has done so in 
these times ? Not many ; not three, not two, something seems 
to have been always wanting ; there is, however, one instance, in 
which the various requisites have been united, and the crown, the 
most desirable in the world— at least which I consider to be the 
most desirable — achieved, and only one, that of Brooke of 
Borneo. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


It never rains but it pours. I was destined to see at this inn 
more acquaintances than one. On the day of Francis Ardry’s 
departure, shortly after he had taken leave of me, as I was stand- 
ing in the corn-chamber, at a kind of writing-table or desk, 
fastened to the wall, with a book before me, in which I was 
making out an account of the corn and hay lately received and 
distributed, my friend the postillion came running in out of 
breath. “ Here they both are,” he gasped out; “pray do come 
and look at them.” 

“ Whom do you mean ? ” said I. 

“Why, that red-haired Jack Priest, and that idiotic parson. 
Platitude; they have just been set down by one of the coaches, 
and want a post-chaise to go across the country in ; and what do 
you think ? I am to have the driving of them. I have no time 
to lose, for I must get myself ready ; so do come and look at 
them.” 

I hastened into the yard of the inn ; two or three of the 
helpers of our establishment were employed in drawing forward 
a post-chaise out of the chaise-house, which occupied one side of 
the yard, and which was spacious enough to contain nearly twenty 
of these vehicles, though it was never full, several of them being 
always out upon the roads, as the demand upon us for post-chaises 
across the country was very great. “There they are,” said the 
postillion, softly, nodding toward two individuals, in one of whom 
I recognised the man in black, and in the other Mr. Platitude ; 
“ there they are ; have a good look at them, while I go and get 
ready.” The man in black and Mr. Platitude were walking up 
and down the yard ; Mr. Platitude was doing his best to make 
himself appear ridiculous, talking very loudly in exceedingly bad 
Italian, evidently for the purpose of attracting the notice of the 
bystanders, in which he succeeded, all the stable-boys and hangers- 
on about the yard, attracted by his vociferation, grinning at his 
ridiculous figure as he limped up and down. The man in black 
said little or nothing, but from the glances which he cast sideways 
appeared to be thoroughly ashamed of his companion ; the worthy 


164 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


couple presently arrived close to where I was standing, and the 
man in black, who was nearest to me, perceiving me, stood still 
as if hesitating, but recovering himself in a moment, he moved on 
without taking any further notice. Mr. Platitude exclaimed as they 
passed, in broken lingo : “ I hope we shall find the holy doctors all 
assembled,” and as they returned, “ I make no doubt that they 
will all be rejoiced to see me Not wishing to be standing an idle 
gazer, I went to the chaise and assisted in attaching the horses, 
which had now been brought out, to the pole. The postillion 
presently arrived, and finding all ready took the reins and mounted 
the box, whilst I very politely opened the door for the two 
travellers ; Mr. Platitude got in first, and, without taking any 
notice of me, seated himself on the farther side. In got the man 
in black and seated himself nearest to me. “ All is right,” said I, 
as I shut the door, whereupon the postillion cracked his whip, and 
the chaise drove out of the yard. Just as I shut the door, 
however, and just as Mr. Platitude had recommenced talking in 
jergo, at the top of his voice, the man in black turned his face 
partly towards me, and gave me a wink with his left eye. 

I did not see my friend the postillion till the next morning, 
when he gave me an account of the adventures he had met with 
on his expedition. It appeared that he had driven the man in 
black and the Reverend Platitude across the country by roads 
and lanes which he had some difficulty in threading. At length, 
when he had reached a part of the country where he had 
never been before, the man in black pointed out to him a 
house near the corner of a wood, to which he informed him 
they were bound. The postillion said it was a strange-look- 
ing house, with a wall round it, and, upon the whole, bore 
something of the look of a madhouse. There was already a 
post-chaise at the gate, from which three individuals had alighted 
— one of them the postillion said was a mean-looking scoundrel, 
with a regular petty-larceny expression in his countenance. He 
was dressed very much like the man in black, and the postillion 
said that he could almost have taken his Bible oath that they were 
both of the same profession. The other two he said were parsons, 
he could swear that, though he had never seen them before ; there 
could be no mistake about them. Church of England parsons 
the postillion swore they were, with their black coats, white 
cravats, and airs, in which clumsiness and conceit were most 
funnily blended — Church of England parsons of the Platitude 
description, who had been in Italy, and seen the Pope, and kissed 
his toe, and picked up a little broken Italian, and come home 


THE. MAN IN BLACK AGAIN. 


165 


1825.J 


greater fools than they went forth. It appeared that they were 
all acquaintances of Mr. Platitude, for when the postillion had 
alighted and let Mr. Platitude and his companion out of the chaise, 
Mr. Platitude shook the whole three by the hand, conversed with 
his two brothers in a little broken jergo, and addressed the petty- 
larceny looking individual by the title of Reverend Doctor. In the 
midst of these greetings, however, the postillion said the man in 
black came up to him, and proceeded to settle with him for the 
chaise ; he had shaken hands with ^nobody, and had merely 
nodded to the others; “and now,” said the postillion, “he 
evidently wished to get rid of me, fearing, probably, that I should 
see too much of the nonsense that was going on. It was whilst 
settling with me that he seemed to recognise me for the first time, 
for he stared hard at me, and at last asked whether I had not 
been in Italy ; to which question, with a nod and a laugh, I replied 
that I had. I was then going to ask him about the health of the 
image of Holy Mary, and to say that I hoped it had recovered 
from its horsewhipping ; but he interrupted me, paid me the money 
for the fare, and gave me a crown for myself, saying he would 
not detain me any longer. I say, partner, I am a poor postillion, 
but when he gave me the crown I had a good mind to fling it in 
his face. I reflected, however, that it was not mere gift-money, but 
coin which I had earned, and hardly too, so I put it in my pocket, 
and I bethought me, moreover, that, knave as I knew him to be, 
he had always treated me with civility ; so I nodded to him, and 
he said something which, perhaps, he meant for Latin, but which 
sounded very much like ‘ vails,’ and by which he doubtless alluded 
to the money which he had given me. He then went into 
the house with the rest, the coach drove away which had brought 
the others, and I was about to get on the box and follow ; observ- 
ing, however, two more chaises driving up, I thought I would be 
in no hurry, so I just led my horses and chaise a little out of the 
way, and pretending to be occupied about the harness, I kept 
a tolerably sharp look-out at the new arrivals. Well, partner, the 
next vehicle that drove up was a gentleman’s carriage which I 
knew very well, as well as those within it, who were a father and 
son, the father a good kind of old gentleman, and a justice of 
the peace, therefore, not very wise, as you may suppose ; the son 
a puppy who has been abroad, where he contrived to forget his own 
language, though only nine months absent, and now rules the 
roast over his father and mother, whose only child he is, and by 
whom he is thought wondrous clever. So this foreigneering 
chap brings his poor old father to this out-of-the-way house to 


i66 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


meet these Platitudes and petty-larceny villains, and perhaps would 
have brought his mother too, only, simple thing, by good fortune 
she happens to be laid up with the rheumatiz. Well, the father 
and son, I beg pardon, I mean the son and father, got down and 
went in, and then ^fter their carriage was gone, the chaise behind 
drove up, in which was a huge fat fellow, weighing twenty stone 
at least, but with something of a foreign look, and with him — who 
do you think ? Why, a rascally Unitarian minister, that is, a fellow 
who had been such a minister, but who, some years ago leaving 
his own people, who had bred him up and sent him to their 
college at York, went over to the High Church, and is now, I 
suppose, going over to some other Church, for he was talking 
as he got down, wondrous fast in Latin, or what sounded some- 
thing like Latin, to the fat fellow, who appeared to take things 
wonderfully easy, and merely grunted to the dog Latin which the 
scoundrel had learnt at the expense of the poor Unitarians at York. 
So they went into the house, and presently arrived another chaise, 
but ere I could make any further observations, the porter of the 
out-of-the-way house came up to me, asking what I was stopping 
there for? bidding me go away, and not pry into other people’s 
business. ‘ Pretty business,’ said I to him, ‘ that is being tran- 
sacted in a place like this,’ and then I was going to say something 
uncivil, but he went to attend to the new comers, and I took 
myself away on my own business as he bade me, not, however, 
before observing that these two last were a couple of blackcoats.” 

The postillion then proceeded to relate how he made the best 
of his way to a small public-house, about a mile off, where he had 
intended to bait, and how he met on the way a landau and pair, 
belonging to a Scotch coxcomb whom he had known in London, 
about whom he related some curious particulars, and then con- 
tinued : “Well, after I had passed him and his turn-out, I drove 
straight to the public-house, where I baited my horses, and where 
I found some of the chaises and drivers who had driven the folks 
to the lunatic-looking mansion, and were now waiting to take 
them up again. Whilst my horses were eating their bait, I sat 
me down, as the weather was warm, at a table outside, and 
smoked a pipe, and drank some ale, in company with the coach- 
man of the old gentleman who had gone to the house with his 
son, and the coachman then told me that the house was a Papist 
house, and that the present was a grand meeting of all the fools 
and rascals in the country, who came to bow down to images, 
and to concert schemes — pretty schemes no doubt — for overturn- 
ing the religion of the country, and that for his part he did not 


1825.] 


THE POSTILLION’S ADVENTURES. 


167 


approve of being concerned with such doings, and that he was 
going to give his master warning next day. So, as we were 
drinking and discoursing, up drove the chariot of the Scotchman, 
and down got his valet and the driver, and whilst the driver was 
seeing after the horses, the valet came and sat^down at the table 
where the gentleman’s coachman and I were drinking. I knew 
the fellow well, a Scotchman like his master, and just of the same 
kidney, with white kid gloves, red hair frizzled, a patch of paint 
on his face, and his hands covered with rings. This very fellow, 
I must tell you, was one of those most busy in endeavouring to 
get me turned out of the servants’ club in Park Lane, because I 
happened to serve a literary man ; so he sat down, and in a kind 
of, affected tone cried out : ‘ Landlord, bring me a glass of cold 
negus’. The landlord, however, told him that there was no 
negus, but that if he pleased, he could have a jug of as good 
beer as any in the country. ‘ Confound the beer,’ said the valet, 

‘ do you think I am accustomed to such vulgar beverage ? ’ 
However, as he found there was nothing better to be had, he let 
the man bring him some beer, and when he had got it, soon 
showed that he could drink it easily enough ; so, when he had 
drunk two or three draughts, he turned his eyes in a contemptuous 
manner, first on the coachman, and then on me ; I saw the scamp 
recollected me, for after staring at me and my dress for about 
half a minute, he put on a broad grin, and flinging his head back, 
he uttered a loud laugh. Well, I did not like this, as you may 
well believe, and taking the pipe out of my mouth, I asked him 
if he meant anything personal, to which he answered, that he had 
said nothing to me, and that he had a right to look where he 
pleased, and laugh when he pleased. Well, as to a certain 
extent he was right, as to looking and laughing, and as I have 
occasionally looked at a fool and laughed, though I was not the 
fool in this instance, I put my pipe into my mouth and said no 
more. This quiet and well-regulated behaviour of mine, how- 
ever, the fellow interpreted into fear ; so, after drinking a little 
more, he suddenly started up, and striding once or twice before 
the table, he asked me what I meant by that impertinent question 
of mine, saying that he had a good mind to wring my nose for 
my presumption. ‘You have?’ said I, getting up, and laying 
down my pipe. ‘ Well, I’ll now give you ah opportunity.’ So I 
put myself in an attitude, and went up to him, saying : ‘ I have an 
old score to settle with you, you scamp ; you wanted to get me 
turned out of the club, didn’t you ? ’ And thereupon, remember- 
ing that he had threatened to wring my nose, I gave him a snorter 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


168 


upon his own. I wish you could have seen the fellow when he 
felt the smart ; so far from trying to defend himself, he turned 
round, and with his hand to his face, attempted to run away; but 
I was now in a regular passion, and following him up, got before 
him, and was going to pummel away at him, when he burst into 
tears, and begged me not to hurt him, saying that he was sorry 
if he had offended me, and that, if I pleased, he would go down 
on his knees, or do .anything else I wanted. Well, when I heard 
him talk in this manner, I, of course, let him be ; I could hardly 
help laughing at the figure he cut ; his face all blubbered with 
tears, and blood and paint ; but I did not laugh at the poor 
creature either, but went to the table and took up my pipe, and 
smoked and drank as if nothing had happened ; and the fello.w, 
after having been to the pump, came and sat down, crying and 
trying to curry favour with me and the coachman ; presently, 
however, putting on a confidential look, he began to talk of the 
Popish house, and of the doings there, and said he supposed as 
how we were of the party, and that it was all right ; and then he 
began to talk of the Pope of Rome, and what a nice man he was, 
and what a fine thing it was to be of his religion, especially if 
folks went over to him ; and how it advanced them in the world, 
and gave them consideration ; and how his master, who had been 
abroad and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, was going over to 
the Popish religion, and had persuaded him to consent to do so, 
and to forsake his own, which I think the scoundrel called the 
’Piscopal Church of Scotland, and how many others of that 
Church were going over, thinking to better their condition in life 
by so doing, and to be more thought on ; and how many of the 
English Church were thinking of going over too, and that he had 
no doubt that it would all end right and comfortably. Well, as 
he was going on in this way, the old coachman began to spit, and 
getting up, flung all the beer that was in his jug upon the ground, 
and going away, ordered another jug of beer, and sat down at 
another table, saying that he would not drink in such company ; 
and I too got up, and flung what beer remained in my jug — there 
wasn’t more than a drop — in the fellow’s face, saying, I would 
scorn to drink any more in such company ; and then I went to 
my horses, put them to, paid my reckoning, and drove home.” 

The postillion having related his story, to which I listened with 
all due attention, mused for a moment, and then said : “ I daresay 
you remember how, some time since, when old Bill had been 
telling us how the Government a long time ago, had done away 
with robbing on the highway, by putting down the public-houses 


MUMBO JUMBO. 


169 


1825.] 


and places which the highwaymen frequented, and by sending out 
a good mounted police to hunt them down, I said that it was a 
shame that the present Government did not employ somewhat 
the same means in order to stop the proceedings of Mumbo 
Jumbo and his gang now-a-days in England. Howsomever, since 
I have driven a fare to a Popish rendezvous, and seen something 
of what is going on there, I should conceive that the Govern- 
ment are justified in allowing the gang the free exercise of their 
calling. Anybody is welcome to stoop and pick up nothing, or 
worse than nothing, and if Mumbo Jumbo’s people, after their 
expeditions, return to their haunts with no better plunder in the 
shape of converts than what I saw going into yonder place of call, 
I should say they are welcome to what they get ; tor if that’s the 
kind of rubbish they steal out of the Church of England, or any 
other Church, who in his senses but would say a good riddance, 
and many thanks for your trouble ? at any rate, that is my opinion 
of the matter.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


It was now that I had frequent deliberations with myself. Should 
I continue at the inn in my present position ? I was not very 
much captivated with it ; there was little poetry in keeping an 
account of the corn, hay and straw which came in, and was 
given out, and I was fond of poetry ; moreover, there was no 
glory at all to be expected in doing so, and I was fond of glory. 
Should I give up that situation, and remaining at the inn, become 
ostler under old Bill ? There was more poetry in rubbing down 
horses than in keeping an account of straw, hay and corn ; there 
was also some prospect of glory attached to the situation of 
ostler, for the grooms and stable-boys occasionally talked of an 
ostler, a great way down the road, who had been presented by 
some sporting people, not with a silver vase, as our governor had 
been, but with a silver currycomb, in testimony of their admira- 
tion for his skill ; but I confess that the poetry of rubbing down 
had become, as all other poetry becomes, rather prosy by frequent 
repetition, and with respect to the chance of deriving glory from 
the employment, I entertained, in the event of my determining 
to stay, very slight hope of ever attaining skill in the ostler art 
sufficient to induce sporting people to bestow upon me a silver 
currycomb. I was not half so good an ostler as old Bill, who 
had never been presented with a silver currycomb, and I never 
expected to become so, therefore what chance had I ? It was 
true, there was a prospect of some pecuniary emolument to be 
derived by remaining in either situation. It was very probable 
that, provided I continued to keep an account of the hay and 
corn coming in and expended, the landlord would consent to 
allow me a pound a week, which at the end of a dozen years, 
provided I kept myself sober, would amount to a considerable 
sum. I might, on the retirement of old Bill, by taking his place, 
save up a decent sum of money, provided, unlike him, I kept 
myself sober, and laid by all the shillings and sixpences I got ; 
but the prospect of laying up a decent sum of money was not of 
sufficient importance to induce me to continue either at my 
wooden desk, or in the inn-yard. The reader will remember 


1825 .] 


DELIBERATIONS. 


iyt 


what difficulty I had to make up my mind to become a merchant 
under the Armenian’s auspices, even with the prospect of making 
two or three hundred thousand pounds by following the Armenian 
way of doing business, so it was not probable that I should feel 
disposed to be book-keeper or ostler all my life with no other 
prospect than being able to make a tidy sum of money. If, 
indeed, besides the prospect of making a tidy sum at the end of 
erhaps forty years’ ostlering, I had been certain of being pre- 
sented with a silver currycomb with my name engraved upon it‘, 
which I might have left to my descendants, or, in default thereof, 
to the parish church destined to contain my bones, with directions 
that it might be soldered into the wall above the arch leading 
from the body^of the church into the chancel — I will not say with 
such a certainty of immortality, combined with such a prospect 
of moderate pecuniary advantage, — I might not have thought it 
worth my while to stay ; but I entertained no such certainty, and, 
taking everything into consideration, I determined to mount my 
horse and leave the inn. 

This horse had caused me for some time past no little per- 
plexity ; I had frequently repented of having purchased him, more 
especially as the purchase had been made with another person’s 
money, and had more than once shown him to people who, I 
imagined, were likely to purchase him ; but, though they were 
profuse in his praise, as people generally are in the praise of 
what they don’t intend to purchase, they never made me an offer, 
and now that I had determined to mount on his back and ride 
away, what was I to do with him in the sequel ? I could not 
maintain him long. Suddenly I bethought me of Horncastle, 
which Francis Ardry had mentioned as a place where the horse 
was likely to find a purchaser, and not having determined upon 
any particular place to which to repair, I thought that I could do 
no better than betake myself to Horncastle in the first instance, 
and there endeavour to dispose of my horse. 

On making inquiries with respect to the situation of Horn- 
castle, and the time when the fair would be held, I learned that 
the town was situated in Lincolnshire, about a hundred and fifty 
miles from the inn at which I was at present sojourning, and that 
the fair would be held nominally within about a month, but that 
it was always requisite to be on the spot some days before the 
nominal day of the fair, as all the best horses were generally sold 
before that time, and the people who came to purchase gone away 
with what they had bought. 

The people of the inn were very sorry on being informed of 


172 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


my determination to depart. Old Bill told me that he had hoped 
as how I had intended to settle down there, and to take his place 
as ostler when he was fit for no more work, adding, that though 
I did not know much of the business, yet he had no doubt but 
that I might improve. My friend the postillion was particularly 
sorry, and taking me with him to the tap-room called for two 
pints of beer, to one of which he treated me ; and whilst we were 
drinking told me how particularly sorry he was at the thought of 
my going, but that he hoped I should think better of the matter. 
On my telling him that I must go, he said that he trusted I should 
put off my departure for three weeks, in order that I might be 
present at his marriage, the banns of which were just about to be 
published. He said that nothing would give him greater pleasure 
than to see me dance a minuet with his wife after the marriage 
dinner ; but I told him it was impossible that I should stay, liiy 
affairs imperatively calling me elsewhere ; and that with respect 
to my dancing a minuet, such a thing was out of the question, as 
I had never learned to dance. At which he said that he was 
exceedingly sorry, and finding me determined to go, wished me 
success in all my undertakings. 

The master of the house, to whom, as in duty bound I com- 
municated my intention before I spoke of it to the servants, was, 
I make no doubt, very sorry, though he did not exactly tell me so. 
What he said was, that he had never expected that I should remain 
long there, as such a situation never appeared to him quite suit- 
able to me, though I had been very diligent, and had given him 
perfect satisfaction. On his inquiring when I intended to depart, 
1 informed him next day, whereupon he begged that I would defer 
my departure till the next day but one, and do him the favour of 
dining with him on the morrow. I informed him that 1 should be 
only too happy. 

On the following day at four o’clock I dined with the landlord, 
in company with a commercial traveller. The dinner was good, 
though plain, consisting of boiled mackerel — rather a rarity in those 
parts at that time — with fennel sauce, a prime baron of roast beef 
after the mackerel, then a tart and noble Cheshire cheese ; we 
had prime sherry at dinner, and whilst eating the cheese prime 
porter, that of Barclay, the only good porter in the world. After 
the cloth was removed we had a bottle of very good port; and 
whilst partaking of the port I had an argument with the commercial 
traveller on the subject of the corn-laws. 

The commercial traveller, having worsted me in the argument 
on the subject of the corn-laws, got up in great glee, saying that 


1825.] 


THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. 


173 


he must order his gig, as business must be attended to. Before 
leaving the room, however, he shook me patronisingly by the hand, 
and said something to the master of the house, but in so low a tone 
that it escaped my ear. 

No sooner had he departed than the master of the house told 
me that his friend the traveller had just said that I was a confounded 
sensible young fellow, and not at all opinionated, a sentiment in 
which he himself perfectly agreed ; then hemming once or twice, 
he said that as I was going on a journey he hoped I was tolerably 
well provided with money, adding that travelling was rather expen- 
sive, especially on horseback, the manner in which he supposed, 
as I had a horse in the stable, I intended to travel. I told him 
that though I was not particularly well supplied with money, I had 
sufficient for the expenses of my journey, at the end of which I 
hoped to procure more. He then hemmed again, and said that 
since I had been at the inn I had rendered him a great deal of 
service in more ways than one, and that he could not think of 
permitting me to depart without making me some remuneration ; 
then putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, he handed me a 
cheque for ten pounds, which he had prepared beforehand, the 
value of which he said I could receive at the next town, or that, 
if I wished it, any waiter in the house would cash it for me. I 
thanked him for his generosity in the best terms I could select, 
but, handing him back the cheque, I told him that I could not 
accept it, saying that, so far from his being my debtor, I believed 
myself to be indebted to him, as not only myself but my horse 
had been living at his house for several weeks. He replied, that 
as for my board at a house like his it amounted to nothing, and 
as for the little corn and hay which the horse had consumed it was 
of no consequence, and that he must insist upon my taking the 
cheque. But I again declined, telling him that doing so would 
be a violation of a rule which I had determined to follow, and 
which nothing but the greatest necessity would ever compel me to 
break through — never to incur obligations. “ But,” said he, “ re- 
ceiving this money will not be incurring an obligation, it is your 
due.” “ I do not think so,” said I ; “I did not engage to serve 
you for money, nor will I take any from you.” ‘^Perhaps you will 
take it as a loan?” said he. “No,” I replied, “I never borrow.” 
“Well,” said the landlord, smiling, “you are different from all 
others that I am acquainted with. I never yet knew any one else 
who scrupled to borrow and receive obligations ; why, there are 
two baronets in this neighbourhood who have borrowed money of 
me, ay, and who have never repaid what they borrowed ; and there 


174 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


are a dozen squires who are under considerable obligations to me, 
who I daresay will never return them. Come, you need not be 
more scrupulous than your superiors — I mean in station.” “ Every 
vessel must stand on its own bottom,” said I ; “ they take pleasure 
in receiving obligations, I take pleasure in being independent. 
Perhaps they are wise, and I am a fool, I know not, but one thing 
I am certain of, which is, that were I not independent I should be 
very unhappy : I should have no visions then.” “ Have you any 
relations?” said the landlord, looking at me compassionately; 
“ excuse me, but 1 don’t think you are exactly fit to take care of 
yourself.” There you are mistaken,” said I, “ I can take precious 
good care of myself ; ay, and can drive a precious hard bargain 
when I have occasion, but driving bargains is a widely different 
thing from receiving gifts. I am going to take my horse to Horn- 
castle, and when there I shall endeavour to obtain his full value 
— ay to the last penny.” 

“ Horncastle ! ” said the landlord, “ I have heard of that place ; 
you mustn’t be dreaming visions when you get there, or they’ll steal 
the horse from under you. “Well,” said he, rising, “ I shall not 
press you further on the subject of the cheque. I intend, how- 
ever, to put you under an obligation to me.” He then rang the 
bell, and having ordered two fresh glasses to be brought, he went 
out and presently returned with a small pint bottle, which he un- 
corked with his own hand ; then sitting down, he said : “ The wine 
that I bring here, is port of eighteen hundred and eleven, the year 
of the comet, the best vintage on record ; the wine which we have 
been drinking,” he added, “ is good, but not to be compared with 
this, which I never sell, and which I am chary of. When you have 
drunk some of it, I think you will own that I have conferred an 
obligation upon you ; ” he then filled the glasses, the wine which 
he poured out diffusing an aroma through the room ; then motion- 
ing me to drink, he raised his own glass to his lips, saying : “ Come, 
friend, I drink to your success at Horncastle ”. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


I DEPARTED from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come 
to it, mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, 
with the small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the 
few things I had brought with me, was a small book of roads with 
a map, which had been presented to me by the landlord. I must 
not forget to state that I did not ride out of the yard, but that my 
horse was brought to me at the front door by old Bill, who insisted 
upon doing so, and who refused a five-shilling piece which I offered 
him ; and it will be as well to let the reader know that the landlord 
shook me by the hand as I mounted, and that the people attached 
to the inn, male and female — my friend the postillion at the head — 
assembled before the house to see me off, and gave me three cheers 
as I rode away. Perhaps no person ever departed from an inn with 
more kclat or better wishes ; nobody looked at me askance, except 
two stage-coachmen who were loitering about, one of whom said to 
his companion : “ I say, Jim ! twig his portmanteau ! a regular New- 
market turn-out, by ! ” 

It was in the cool of the evening of a bright day — all the days 
of that summer were bright — that I departed. I felt at first rather 
melancholy at finding myself again launched into the wide world, 
and leaving the friends whom I had lately made behind me ; but 
by occasionally trotting the horse, and occasionally singing a song 
of Romanvile, I had dispelled the feeling of melancholy by the 
time I had proceeded three miles down the main road. It was 
at the end of these three miles, just opposite a milestone, that I 
struck into a cross road. After riding about seven miles, thread- 
ing what are called, in postillion parlance, cross-country roads, I 
reached another high road, tending to the east, along which I 
proceeded for a mile or two, when coming to a small inn, about 
nine o’clock, I halted and put up for the night. 

Early on the following morning I proceeded on my journey, 
but fearing to gall the horse, I no longer rode him, but led him 
by the bridle, until I came to a town at a distance of about ten 
miles from the place where I had passed the night. Here I 
stayed during the heat of the day, more on the horse’s account 


176 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


than my own, and towards evening resumed my journey, leading 
the animal by the bridle as before ; and in this manner I pro- 
ceeded for several days, travelling on an average from twenty to 
twenty-five miles a day, always leading the animal, except perhaps 
now and then of an evening, when, if I saw a good piece of road 
before me, I would mount and put the horse into a trot, which 
the creature seemed to enjoy as much as myself, showing his 
satisfaction by snorting and neighing, whilst I gave utterance to 
to my own exhilaration by shouts, or by “ the chi she is kaulo ; she 
soves pre lakie dumo,” or by something else of the same kind in 
Roman vile. 

On the whole, I journeyed along very pleasantly, certainly 
quite as pleasantly as I do at present, now that I am become a 
gentleman and weigh sixteen stone, though some people would 
say that my present manner of travelling is much the most pre- 
ferable, riding as I now do, instead of leading my horse ; receiving 
the homage of ostlers instead of their familiar nods ; sitting down 
to dinner in the parlour of the best inn I can find, instead of 
passing the brightest part of the day in the kitchen of a village 
ale-house ; carrying on my argument after dinner on the subject 
of the corn-laws, with the best commercial gentlemen on the road, 
instead of being glad, whilst sipping a pint of beer, to get into 
conversation with blind trampers, or maimed Abraham sailors, 
regaling themselves on half-pints at the said village hostelries. 
Many people will doubtless say that things have altered wonder- 
fully with me for the better, and they would say right, provided I 
possessed now what I then carried about with me in my journeys 
— the spirit of youth. Youth is the only season for enjoyment, 
and the first twenty-five years of one’s life are worth all the rest 
of the longest life of man, even though those five-and-twenty be 
spent in penury and contempt, and the rest in the possession of 
wealth, honours, respectability, ay, and many of them in strength 
and health, such as will enable one to ride forty miles before 
dinner, and over one’s pint of port — for the best gentleman in 
the land should not drink a bottle — carry on one’s argument, 
with gravity and decorum, with any commercial gentleman who, 
responsive to one’s challenge, takes the part of humanity and 
common sense against “protection” and the lord of the land. 

Ah ! there is nothing like youth — not that after-life is value- 
less. Even in extreme old age one may get on very well, provided 
we will but accept of the bounties of God. I met the other day 
an old man, who asked me to drink. “ I am not thirsty,” said I, 
“and will not drink with you.” “Yes, you will,” said the old 


1825.] 


BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND. 


177 


man, “ for I am this day one hundred years old ; and you will 
never again have an opportunity of drinking the health of a man 
on his hundredth birthday.” So I broke my word, and drank. 
“Yours is a wonderful age,” said I. “It is a long time to look 
back to the beginning of it,” said the old man ; “ yet, upon the 
whole, I am not sorry to have lived it all.” “ How have you 
passed your time ? ” said I. “ As well as I could,” said the old 
man; “always enjoying a good thing when it came honestly 
within my reach; not forgetting to praise God for putting it 
there.” “ I suppose you were fond of a glass of good ale when 
you were young ? ” “ Yes*” said the old man, “ I was; and so, 

thank God, I am still.” And he drank off a glass of ale. 

On I went in my journey, traversing England from west to 
east, ascending and descending hills, crossing rivers by bridge 
and ferry, and passing over extensive plains. What a beautiful 
country is England ! People run abroad to see beautiful coun- 
tries, and leave their own behind unknown, unnoticed — their 
own the most beautiful ! And then, again, what a country for 
adventures ! especially to those who travel it on foot, or on horse- 
back. People run abroad in quest of adventures, and traverse 
Spain or Portugal on mule or on horseback ; whereas there are 
ten times more adventures to be met with in England than in 
Spain, Portugal, or stupid Germany to boot. Witness the number 
of adventures narrated in the present book — a book entirely de- 
voted to England. Why, there is not a chapter in the present 
book which is not full of adventures, with the exception of the 
present one, and this is not yet terminated. 

After traversing two or three counties, I reached the confines 
of Lincolnshire. During one particularly hot day I put up at 
a public-house, to which, in the evening, came a party of 
harvesters to make merry, who, finding me wandering about the 
house a stranger, invited me to partake of their ale ; so I drank 
with the harvesters, who sang me songs about rural life, such 
as : — 

Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail^ as it 
sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn. 

In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Roman- 
vile, but the song of “Sivord and the horse Gray man ”. I 
remained with them till it was dark, having, after sunset, entered 
into deep discourse with a celebrated ratcatcher, who communi- 
cated to me the secrets of his trade, saying, amongst other things : 
“ When you see the rats pouring out of their holes, and running 

12 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


178 


up my hands and arms, it’s not after me they comes, but after 
the oils I carries about me they comes ” ; and who subsequently 
spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it 
was the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it 
was likely to last for ever ; for whereas all other kinds of vermin 
were fast disappearing from England, rats were every day be- 
coming more abundant. I had quitted this good company, and 
having mounted my horse, was making my way towards a town 
at about six miles distance, at a swinging trot, my thoughts deeply 
engaged on what I had gathered from^the ratcatcher, when all on 
a sudden a light glared upon the horse’s face, who purle.d round 
in great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, 
or with as much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, 
flings Sivord the Snareswayne. I fell upon the ground — felt a 
kind of crashing about my neck — and forthwith became senseless. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


How long I remained senseless I cannot say — for a considerable 
time, I believe ; at length, opening my eyes, I found myself lying 
on a bed in a middle-sized chamber, lighted by a candle, which 
stood on a table. An elderly man stood near me, and a yet more 
elderly female was holding a phial of very pungent salts to my 
olfactory organ. I attempted to move, but felt very stiff ; my 
right arm appeared nearly paralysed, and there was a strange dull 
sensation in my head. “You had better remain still, young 
man,” said the elderly individual, “the surgeon will be here 
presently ; I have sent a message for him to the neighbouring 
village.” “Where am I?” said I, “and what has happened ? ” 
“You are in my house,” said the old man, “and you have been 
flung from a horse. I am sorry to say that I was the cause. As 
I was driving home, the lights in my gig frightened the animal.” 
“ Where is the horse? ” said I. “ Below, in my stable,” said the 
elderly individual. “ I saw you fall, but knowing that on account 
of my age I could be of little use to you, I instantly hurried home 
— the accident did not occur more than a furlong off — and procuring 
the assistance of my lad, and two or three neighbouring cottagers, 
I returned to the spot where you were lying senseless. We raised 
you up, and brought you here. My lad then went in quest of 
the horse, who had run away as we drew nigh. When we saw 
him first, he was standing near you ; he caught him with some 
difficulty, and brought him home. What are you about?” said 
the old man, as I strove to get off the bed. “ I want to see the 
horse,” said I. “I entreat you to be still,” said the old man; 
“the horse is safe, I assure you.” “I am thinking about his 
knees,” said I. “ Instead of thinking about your horse’s knees,” 
said the old man, “ be thankful that you have not broke your 
own neck.” “You do not talk wisely,” said I; “when a man’s 
neck is broke, he is provided for; but when his horse’s knees are 
broke, he is a lost jockey, that is, if he has nothing but his horse 
to depend upon. A pretty figure I should cut at Horncastle, 
mounted on a horse blood-raw at the knees.” “ Oh, you are 
going to Horncastle,” said the old man seriously, “then I can 


i8o 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


sympathise with you in your anxiety about your horse, being a 
Lincolnshire man, and the son of one who bred horses. 1 will 
myself go down into the stable, and examine into the condition 
of your horse, so pray remain quiet till I return ; it would certainly 
be a terrible thing to appear at Horncastle on a broken-kneed 
horse.” 

He left the room and returned in about ten minutes, followed 
by another person. “Your horse is safe,” said he, “and his 
knees are unblemished ; not a hair ruffled. He is a fine animal, 
and will do credit to Horncastle ; but here is the surgeon come 
to examine into your own condition.” The surgeon was a man 
about thirty-five,, thin, and rather tall ; his face was long and pale, 
and his hair, which was light, was carefully combed back as 
much as possible from his forehead. He was dressed very neatly, 
and spoke in a very precise tone. “ Allow me to feel your pulse, 
friend? ” said he, taking me by the right wrist. I uttered a cry, 
for at the motion which he caused a thrill of agony darted through 
my arm. “ I hope your arm is not broke, my friend,” said the 
surgeon, “ allow me to see ; first of all, we must divest you of 
this cumbrous frock.” 

The frock was removed with some difficulty, and then the 
upper vestments of my frame, with more difficulty still. The 
surgeon felt my arm, moving it up and down, causing me unspeak- 
able pain. “ There is no fracture,” said he at last, “ but a 
contusion — a violent contusion. I am told you were going to 
Horncastle ; I am afraid you will be hardly able to ride your 
horse thither in time to dispose of him ; however, we shall see ; 
your arm must be bandaged, friend, after which I shall bleed 
you, and administer a composing draught.” 

To be short, the surgeon did as he proposed, and when -he 
had administered the composing draught, he said : “ Be of good 
cheer ; I should not be surprised if you are yet in time for Horn- 
castle ”. He then departed with the master of the house, and the 
woman, leaving me to my repose. I soon began to feel drowsy, 
and was just composing myself to slumber, lying on my back, as 
the surgeon had advised me, when I heard steps ascending the 
stairs, and in a moment more the surgeon entered again, followed 
by the master of the house. “I hope we don’t disturb you,” 
said the former ; “my reason for returning is to relieve your mind 
from any anxiety with respect to your horse. I am by no means 
sure that you will be able, owing to your accident, to reach Horn- 
castle in time : to quiet you, however, I will buy your horse for 
any reasonable sum. I have been down to the stable, and approve 


THE SURGEON. 


i8i 


1825.] 


of his figure. What do you ask for him? ” “This is a strange 
time of night,” said I, “to come to me about purchasing my 
horse, and I am hardly in a fitting situation to be applied to about 
such a matter. What do you want him for?” “For my own 
use,” said the surgeon ; “I am a professional man, and am 
obliged to be continually driving about; I cover at least one 
hundred and fifty miles every week.” “He will never answer 
your purpose,” said I ; “he is not a driving horse, and was never 
between shafts in his life ; he is for riding, more especially for 
trotting, at which he has few equals.” “It matters not to me 
whether he is for riding or driving,” said the surgeon, “ sometimes 
I ride, sometimes drive ; so, if we can come to terms, I will buy him, 
though, remember, it is chiefly to remove any anxiety from your 
mind about him.” “ This is no time for bargaining,” said I ; “if 
you wish to have the horse for a hundred guineas, you may ; if 

not ” “ A hundred guineas ! ” said the surgeon ; “ my good 

friend, you must surely be light-headed — allow me to feel your 
pulse,” and he attempted to feel my left wrist. “ I am not light- 
headed,” said I, “ and I require no one to feel my pulse ; but I 
should be light-headed if I were to sell my horse for less than I 
have demanded ; but I have a curiosity to know what you would 
be willing to offer.” “Thirty pounds,” said the surgeon, “is all 
I can afford to give ; and that is a great deal for a country surgeon 
to offer for a horse.” “ Thirty pounds ! ” said I, “ why, he cost 
me nearly double that sum. To tell you the truth, I am afraid 
you want to take advantage of my situation.” “ Not in the 
least, friend,” said the surgeon, “ not in the least ; I only wished 
to set your mind at rest about your horse ; but as you think he 
is worth more than I can afford to offer, take him to Horncastle 
by all means ; I will do my best to cure you in time. Good- 
night, I will see you again on the morrow.” Thereupon he once 
more departed with the master of the house. “ A sharp one,” 
I heard him say, with a laugh, as the door closed upon him. 

Left to myself, I again essayed to compose myself to rest, but 
for some time in vain. I had been terribly shaken by my fall, 
and had subsequently, owing to the incision of the surgeon’s 
lancet, been deprived of much of the vital fluid ; it is when the 
body is in such a state that the merest trifles affect and agitate 
the mind ; no wonder, then, that the return of the surgeon and 
the master .of the house for the purpose of inquiring whether I 
would sell my horse, struck me as being highly extraordinary, 
considering the hour of the night, and the situation in which they 
knew me to be, What could they mean by such conduct— 


i 82 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. ’ 


did they wish to cheat me of the animal? “Well, well,” said 
I, “if they did, what matters, they found their match ; yes, yes,” 
said I, “but I am in their power, perhaps” — but I instantly dis- 
missed the apprehension which came into my mind, with a pooh, 
nonsense ! In a little time, however, a far more foolish and 
chimerical idea began to disturb me — the idea of being flung from 
my horse ; was I not disgraced for ever as a horseman by being 
flung from my horse? Assuredly I thought ; and the idea of being 
disgraced as a horseman, operating on my nervous system, caused 
me very acute misery. “After all,” said I to myself, “it was 
perhaps the contemptible opinion which the surgeon must have 
formed of my equestrian powers, which induced him to offer to 
take my horse off my hands ; he perhaps thought I was unable 
to manage a horse, and therefore in pity returned in the dead of 
night to offer to purchase the animal which had flung me ; ” 
and then the thought that the surgeon had conceived a contemp- 
tible opinion of my equestrian powers, caused me the acutest 
misery, and continued tormenting me until some other idea (I 
have forgot what it was, but doubtless equally foolish) took pos- 
session of my mind. At length, brought on by the agitation of 
my spirits, there came over me the same feeling of horror that I had 
experienced of old when I was a boy, and likewise of late within 
the dingle ; it was, however, not so violent as it had been on 
those occasions, and I struggled manfully against it until by 
degrees it passed away, and then I fell asleep ; and in my sleep I 
had an ugly dream. I dreamt that I had died of the injuries I 
had received from my fall, and that no sooner had my soul departed 
from my body than it entered that of a quadruped, even my own 
horse in the stable — in a word, I was, to all intents and purposes, 
my own steed ; and as I stood in the stable chewing hay (and I 
remembered that the hay was exceedingly tough), the door opened, 
and the surgeon who had attended me came in. “ My good 
animal,” said he, “ as your late master has scarcely left enough to 
pay for the expenses of his funeral, and nothing to remunerate 
me for my trouble, I shall make bold to take possession of you. 
If your paces are good, I shall keep you for my own riding ; if not, 
I shall take you to Horncastle, your original destination.” He 
then bridled and saddled me, and leading me out, mounted, and 
then trotted me up and down before the house, at the door of 
which the old man, who now appeared to be dressQ,d in regular 
jockey fashion, was standing. “ I like his paces well,” said the 
surgeon ; “I think I shall take him for my own use.” “ And what 
am I to have for all the trouble his master caused me ? ” said my 


1825.] 


STRANGE DREAM. 


183 


late entertainer, on whose countenance I now observed, for the 
first time, a diabolical squint. '‘The consciousness of having 
done your duty to a fellow-creature in succouring him in a time 
of distress, must be your reward,” said the surgeon. “ Pretty 
gammon, truly,” said my late entertainer. “ What would you say if 
I were to talk in that way to you ? Come, unless you choose to 
behave jonnock, I shall take the bridle and lead the horse back 
into the stable.” “Well,” said the surgeon, “we are old friends, 
and I don’t wish to dispute with you, so I’ll tell you what I will 
do ? I will ride the animal to Horncastle, and we will share what 
he fetches like brothers.” “Good,” said the old man, “but if 
you say that you have sold him for less than a hundred, I shan’t 
consider you jonnock ; remember what the young fellow said — 

that young fellow ” I heard no more, for the next moment I 

found myself on a broad road leading, as I supposed, in the 
direction of Horncastle, the surgeon still in the saddle, and my 
legs moving at a rapid trot. “ Get on,” said the surgeon, jerking 
my mouth with the bit ; whereupon, full of rage, I instantly set 
off at full gallop, determined, if possible, to dash my rider to the 
earth. The surgeon, however, kept his seat, and so far from 
attempting to abate my speed, urged me on to greater efforts with 
a stout stick, which methought he held in his hand. In vain did 
I rear and kick, attempting to get rid of my foe ; but the surgeon 
remained as saddle-fast as ever the Maugrabin sorcerer in the 
Arabian tale, what time he rode the young prince transformed into 
a steed to his enchanted palace in the wilderness. At last, as I 
was still madly dashing on, panting and blowing, and had almost 
given up all hope, I saw at a distance before me a heap of stones 
by the side of the road, probably placed there for the purpose of 
repairing it ; a thought appeared to strike me — I will shy at those 
stones, and, if I can’t get rid of him so-, resign myself to my fate. 
So I increased my speed, till arriving within about ten yards of 
the heap, I made a desperate start, turning half-round with nearly 
the velocity of a mill-stone. Oh, the joy I experienced when I 
felt my enemy canted over my neck, and saw him lying senseless 
in the road. “I have you now in my power,” I said, or rather 
neighed, as, going up to my prostrate foe, I stood over him. 
“ Suppose I were to rear now, and let my fore feet fall upon you 
what would your life be worth ? that is, supposing you are not 
killed already ; but lie there, I will do you no further harm, but 

trot to Horncastle without a rider, and when there ” and 

without further reflection off I trotted in the direction of 
Horncastle, but had not gone far before my bridle, falling from 


184 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


my neck, got entangled with my off fore foot. I felt myself falling, 
a thrill of agony shot through me — my knees would be 
broken, and what should I do at Horncastle with a pair 
of broken knees ; I struggled, but I could not disengage my off 
fore foot, and downward I fell, but before I had reached the 
ground I awoke, and found myself half out of bed, my bandaged 
arm in considerable pain, and my left hand just touching the 
floor. 

With some difficulty I readjusted myself in bed. It was now 
early morning, and the first rays of the sun were • beginning to 
penetrate the white curtains of a window on my left, which 
probably looked into a garden, as I caught a glimpse or two of 
the leaves of trees through a small uncovered part at the side. For 
some time I felt uneasy and anxious, my spirits being in a strange 
fluttering state. At last my eyes fell upon a small row of teacups, 
seemingly of china, which stood on a mantelpiece exactly fronting 
the bottom of the bed. The sight of these objects, I know not why, 
soothed and pacified me ; I kept my eyes fixed upon them, as T 
lay on my back on the bed, with my head upon the pillow, till at 
last I fell into a calm and refreshing sleep. 


[JEnd of Vol. 1857.] 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


It might be about eight o’clock in the morning when I was 
awakened by the entrance of the old man. “ How have you 
rested ? ” said he, coming up to the bedside, and looking me in 
the face. “ Well,” said I, “ and I feel much better, but I am still 
very sore.” I surveyed him now for the first time with attention. 
He was dressed in a sober-coloured suit, and was apparently 
between sixty and seventy. In stature he was rather above the 
middle height, but with a slight stoop ; his features were placid, 
and expressive of much benevolence, but as it appeared to me, with 
rather a melancholy cast. As I gazed upon them, I felt ashamed 
that I should ever have conceived in my brain a vision like that 
of the preceding night, in which he appeared in so disadvantageous 
a light. At length he said : “ It is now time for you to take some 
refreshment. I hear my old servant coming up with your break- 
fast.” In a moment the elderly female entered with a tray, on 
which was some bread and butter, a teapot and cup. The cup 
was of common blue earthenware, but the pot was of china, 
curiously fashioned, and seemingly of great antiquity. The old 
man poured me out a cupful of tea, and then, with the assistance 
of the woman, raised me higher, and propped me up with pillows. 
I ate and drank ; when the pot was emptied of its liquid (it did 
not contain much), I raised it up with my left hand to inspect it. 
The sides were covered with curious characters, seemingly 
hieroglyphics. After surveying them for some time, I replaced 
it upon the tray. “ You seem fond of china,” said I to the old 
man, after the servant had retired with the breakfast things, and I 
had returned to my former posture; “you have china on the 
mantelpiece, and that was a remarkable teapot out of which I have 
just been drinking.” 

The old man fixed his eyes intently on me, and methought 
the expression of his countenance became yet more melancholy. 
“ Yes,” said he at last, “I am fond of china — I have reason to be 

fond of china — but for china I should ” and here he sighed 

again. 

“ You value it for the quaintness and singularity of its form,” 

(•85) 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


186 


said I ; “it appears to be less adapted for real use than our own 
pottery.” 

“ I care little about its form,” said the old man ; “ I care for 

it simply on account of however, why talk to you on the 

subject which can have no possible interest for you ? I expect the 
surgeon here presently.” 

“ I do not like that surgeon at all,” said I ; “ how strangely he 
behaved last night, corning back, when I was just falling asleep, to 
ask me if I would sell my horse.” 

The old man smiled. “ He has but one failing,” said he, “ an 
itch for horse-dealing; but for that he might be a much richer 
man than he is ; he is continually buying and exchanging horses, 
and generally finds himself a loser by his bargains : but he is a 
worthy creature, and skilful in his profession ; it is well for you 
that you are under his care.” 

The old man then left me, and in about an hour returned with 
the surgeon, who examined me and reported favourably as to my 
case. He spoke to me with kindness and feeling, and did not 
introduce the subject of the horse. I asked him whether he 
thought I should be in time for the fair. “ I saw some people 
making their way thither to-day,” said he; “the fair lasts three 
weeks, and it has just commenced. Yes, I think I may promise 
you that you will be in time for the very heat of it. In a few days 
you will be able to mount your saddle with your arm in a sling, but 
you must by no means appear with your arm in a sling at Horn- 
castle, as people would think that your horse had flung you, and 
that you wanted to dispose of him because he was a vicious 
brute. You must, by all means, drop the sling before you get to 
Horncastle.” 

For three days I kept my apartment by the advice of the 
surgeon. I passed my time as I best could. Stretched on my 
bed, I either abandoned myself to reflection, or listened to the 
voices of the birds in the neighbouring garden. Sometimes, as I 
lay awake at night, I would endeavour to catch the tick of a clock, 
which methought sounded from some distant part of the house. 

The old man visited me twice or thrice every day to inquire 
into my state. His words were few on these occasions, and he did 
not stay long. Yet his voice and his words were kind. What 
surprised me most in connection with this individual was, the 
delicacy of conduct which he exhibited in not letting a word pro- 
ceed from his lips which could testify curiosity respecting who I 
was, or whence I came. All he knew of me was, that I had been 
flung from my horse on my way to a fair for the purpose of dis- 


UNPRETENDING HOSPITALITY. 


187 


1825.] 


posing of the animal, and that I was now his guest. I might be 
a common horse-dealer for what he knew, yet I was treated by him 
with all the attention which I could have expected, had I been an 
alderman of Boston’s heir, and known to him as such. The 
county in which I am now, thought I at last, must be either ex- 
traordinarily devoted to hospitality, or this old host of mine must 
be an extraordinary individual. On the evening of the fourth day, 
feeling tired of my confinement, I put my clothes on in the best 
manner I could, and left the chamber. Descending a flight of 
stairs, I reached a kind of quadrangle, from which branched two 
or three passages ; one of these I entered, which had a door at the 
farther end, and one on each side ; the one to the left standing 
partly open, I entered it, and found myself in a middle-sized room 
with a large window, or rather glass door, which looked into a 
garden, and which stood open. There was nothing remarkable in 
this room, except a large quantity of china. There was china on 
the mantelpiece, china on two tables, and a small beaufet, which 
stood opposite the glass door, was covered with china ; there were 
cups, teapots and vases of various forms, and on all of them I 
observed characters — not a teapot, not a teacup, not a vase of 
whatever form or size, but appeared to possess hieroglyphics on 
some part or other. After surveying these articles for some time 
with no little interest, I passed into the garden, in which there 
were small parterres of flowers, and two or three trees, and which, 
where the house did not abut, was bounded by a wall ; turning to 
the right by a walk by the side of the house, I passed by a door — 
probably the one I had seen at the end of the passage — and arrived 
at another window similar to that through which I had come, and 
which also stood open ; I was about to pass by it, when I heard 
the voice of my entertainer exclaiming : “Is that you ? pray come 
in.” 

I entered the room, which seemed to be a counterpart of the 
one which I had just left. It was of the same size, had the same 
kind of furniture, and appeared to be equally well stocked with 
china ; one prominent article it possessed, however, which the other 
room did not exhibit — namely, a clock, which, with its pendulum 
moving tick-a-tick, hung against the wall opposite to the door, the 
sight of which made me conclude that the sound which methought 
I had heard in the stillness of the night was not an imaginary one. 
There it hung on the wall, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick. 
The old gentleman was seated in an easy-chair a little way into the 
room, having the glass door on his right hand. On a table before 
him lay a large open volurpe^ in which I observed Roman letters 


i88 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


as well as characters. A few inches beyond the book on the table, 
covered all over with hieroglyphics, stood a china vase. The eyes 
of the old man were fixed upon it. 

“Sit down,” said he, motioning me with his hand to a stool 
close by, but without taking his eyes from the vase. 

“ I can’t make it out,” said he at last, removing his eyes from 
the vase, and leaning ' back on the chair, “ I can’t make it out,” 

“ I wish I could assist you,” said I. 

“Assist me,” said the old man, looking at me with a half 
smile. 

“Yes,” said I, “but I do not understand Chinese.” 

“ I suppose not,” said the old man, with another slight smile ; 

“ but — but ” 

“ Pray proceed,” said I. 

“ I wished to ask you,” said the old man, “ how you knew that 
the characters on yon piece of crockery were Chinese ; or, indeed, 
that there was such a language ? ” 

“ I knew the crockery was china,” said I, “ and naturally 
enough supposed what was written upon it to be Chinese ; as for 
there being such a language — the English have a language, the 
French have a language, and why not the Chinese?” 

“ May I ask you a question ? ” 

“ As many as you like.” 

“ Do you know any language besides English? ” 

“Yes,” said I, “ I know a little of two or three.” 

“ May I ask their names ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” said I, “ I know a little French.” 

“ Anything else ? ” 

“Yes, a little Welsh, and a little Haik.” 

“ What is Haik ? ” 

“Armenian.” 

“ I am glad to see you in my house,” said the old man, 
shaking me by the hand ; “ how singular that one coming as you 
dtd should know Armenian.” 

“Not more singular,” said I, “ than that one living in such a 
place as this should know Chinese. How came you to acquire 
it? ” 

The old man looked at me, and sighed. “ I beg pardon,” 
said I, “ for asking what is, perhaps, an impertinent question ; I 
have not imitated your own delicacy ; you have never asked me 
a question without first desiring permission, and here I have been 
days and nights in your house an intruder on your hospitality, 
and yon have n^ver so much as asked me who I am.” 


1825.] 


THE CHINESE STUDENT. 


i8g 


“In forbearing to do that,” said the old man, “I merely 
obeyed the Chinese precept ; ‘ Ask no questions of a guest ’ ; it 
is written on both sides of the teapot out of which you have had 
your tea.” 

“I wish I knew Chinese,” said I. “Is it a difficult language 
to acquire ? ” 

“ I have reason to think so,” said the old man. “ I have 
been occupied upon it five-and-thirty years, and I am still very 
imperfectly acquainted with it ; at least, I frequently find upon 
my crockery sentences the meaning of which to me is very dark, 
though it is true these sentences are mostly verses, which are, of 
course, more difficult to understand than mere prose.” 

“ Are your Chinese studies,” said I, “ confined to crockery 
literature ? ” 

“ Entirely,” said the old man ; “ I read nothing else.” 

“ I have heard,” said I, “ that the Chinese have no letters, 
but that for every word they have a separate character — is it so ? ” 

“ For every word they have a particular character,” said the 
old man ; “ though, to prevent confusion, they have arranged 
their words under two hundred and fourteen what we should call 
radicals^ but which they call keys. As we arrange all our words 
in a dictionary under twenty-four letters, so do they arrange all 
their words, or characters, under two hundred and fourteen radical 
signs ; the simplest radicals being the first, and the more complex 
the last.” 

“ Does the Chinese resemble any of the European languages 
in words ? ” said I. 

“ I am scarcely competent to inform you,” said the old man; 
“ but I believe not.” 

“What does that character represent ?” said I, pointing to 
one on the vase. 

“ A knife,” said the old man ; “ that character is one of the 
simplest radicals or keys.” 

“ And what is the sound of it ? ” said I. 

“ Tau” said the old man. 

“Tau,” said I; “tau!” 

“ A strange word for a knife ! is it not ? ” said the old man. 

“ Tawse ! ” said I ; “ tawse ! ” 

“ What is tawse ? ” said the old man. 

“ You were never at school at Edinburgh, I suppose ? ” 

“ Never,” said the old man. 

“ That accounts for your not knowing the meaning of tawse,” 
said I ; “ had you received the rudiments of a classical education 


THE ROMANY RYL. 


[1825. 


190 


at the High School, you would have known the meaning of tawse 
full well. It is a leathern thong, with which refractory urchins 
are recalled to a sense of their duty by the dominie. Tau — tawse 
— how singular ! ” 

“ I cannot see what the two words have in common, except a 
slight agreement in sound.” 

“You will see the connection,” said I, “when I inform you 
that the thong, from the middle to the bottom, is cut or slit into 
two or three parts, from which slits or cuts, unless I am very much 
mistaken, it derives its name — tawse, a thong with slits or cuts, 
used for chastising disorderly urchins at the High School, from 
the French tailler, to cut ; evidently connected with the Chinese 
tau, a knife — how very extraordinary ! ” « 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Two days — three days passed away, and I still remained at the 
house of my hospitable entertainer, my bruised limb rapidly re- 
covering the power of performing its functions. I passed my 
time agreeably enough, sometimes in my chamber, communing 
with my own thoughts; sometimes in the stable, attending to, 
and not unfrequently conversing with, my horse ; and at meal- 
time — for I seldom saw him at any other — discoursing with the 
old gentleman, sometimes on the Chinese vocabulary, sometimes 
on Chinese syntax, and once or twice on English horseflesh, 
though on this latter subject, notwithstanding his descent from a 
race of horse-traders, he did not enter with much alacrity. 
As a small requital* for his kindness, I gave him one day, after 
dinner, unasked, a brief account of my history and pursuits. He 
listened with attention, and when it was concluded, thanked me 
for the confidence which I had reposed in him. “Such con- 
duct,” said he, “deserves a return. I will tell you my own 
history ; it is brief, but may perhaps not prove uninteresting to 
you — though the relation of it will give me some pain.” “ Pray, 
then, do not recite it,” said I. “ Yes,” said the old man, “ I will 
tell you, for I wish you to know it.” He was about to begin, 
when he was interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon. The 
surgeon examined into the state of my bruised limb, and told me, 
what indeed I already well knew, that it was rapidly improving. 
“You will not even require a sling,” said he, “to ride to Horn- 
castle. When do you propose going ?” he demanded. “When 
do you think I may venture? ” I replied. “ I think, if you are a 
tolerably good horseman, you may mount the day after to-morrow,” 
answered the medical man. “ By-the-bye, are you acquainted 
with anybody at Horncastle ? ” “ With no living soul,” I answered. 
“ Then you would scarcely find stable-room for your horse. But 
I am happy to be able to assist you. I have a friend there who 
keeps a small inn, and who, during the time of the fair, keeps 
a stall vacant for any quadruped I may bring, until he knows 
whether I am coming or not. I will give you a letter to him, 
and he will see after the accommodation of your horse. To- 


192 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


morrow I will pay you a farewell visit, and bring you the letter.” 
“Thank you,” said I; “and do not forget to bring your bill.” 
The surgeon looked at the old man, who gave him a peculiar nod. 
“Oh!” said he, in reply tome, “for the little service I have 
rendered you, I require no remuneration. You are in my friend’s 
house, and he and I understand each other.” “ I never receive 
such favours,” said I, “as you have rendered me, without re- 
munerating them ; therefore, I shall expect your bill.” “ Oh ! 
just as you please,” said the surgeon ; and shaking me by the 
hand more warmly than he had hitherto done, he took his leave. 

On the evening of the next day, the last which I spent with 
my kind entertainer, I sat at tea with him in a little summer-house 
in his garden, partially shaded by the boughs of a large fig-tree. 
The surgeon had shortly before paid me his farewell visit, and had 
brought me the letter of introduction to his friend at Horncastle, 
and also his bill, which I found anything but extravagant. After 
we had each respectively drank the contents of two cups — and it 
may not be amiss here to inform the reader that though I took 
cream with my tea, as I always do when I can procure that addi- 
tion, the old man, like most people bred up in the country, drank 
his without it — he thus addressed me : “I am, as I told you on 
the night of your accident, the son of a breeder of horses, a 
respectable and honest man. When I was about twenty he died, 
leaving me, his only child, a comfortable property, consisting of 
about two hundred acres of land and some fifteen hundred pounds 
in money. My mother had died about three years previously. 
I felt the death of my mother keenly, but that of my father less 
than was my duty ; indeed, truth compels me to acknowledge 
that I scarcely regretted his death. The cause of this want of 
proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced 
from him in an afiair which deeply concerned me. I had formed 
an attachment for a young female in the neighbourhood, who, 
though poor, was of highly respectable birth, her father having 
been a curate of the Established Church. She was, at the time 
of which I am speaking, an orphan, having lost both her parents, 
and supported herself by keeping a small school. My attachment 
was returned, and we had pledged our vows, but my father, who 
could not reconcile himself to her lack of fortune, forbade our 
marriage in the most positive terms. He was wrong, for she was 
a fortune in herself — amiable and accomplished. Oh ! I cannot 
tell you all she was — ” and here the old man drew his hand 
across his eyes. “ By the death of my father, the only obstacle 
to our happiness appeared to be removed. We agreed, therefore, 


1825.] 


THE OLD MAN’S HISTORY. 


193 


that our marriage should take place within the course of a year, 
and I forthwith commenced enlarging my house and getting my 
affairs in order. Having been left in the easy circumstances 
which I have described, I determined to follow no business, but 
to pass my life in a strictly domestic manner, and to be very, very 
happy. Amongst other property derived from my father were 
several horses, which I disposed of in this neighbourhood, with 
the exception of two remarkably fine ones, which I determined to 
take to the next fair at Horncastle, the only place where I expected 
to be able to obtain what I considered to be their full value. At 
length the time arrived for the commencement of the fair, which 
was within three months of the period which my beloved and 
myself had fixed upon for the celebration of our nuptials. To 
the fair I went, a couple of trusty men following me with the 
horses. I soon found a purchaser for the animals, a portly, 
plausible person, of about forty, dressed in a blue riding coat, 
brown top boots, and leather breeches. There was a strange- 
looking urchin with him, attired in nearly similar fashion, with a 
beam in one of his eyes, who called him father. The man paid 
me for the purchase in bank-notes — three fifty-pound notes for 
the two horses. As we were about to take leave of each other, he 
suddenly produced another fifty-pound note, inquiring whether I 
could change it, complaining, at the same time, of the difficulty 
of procuring change in the fair. As I happened to have plenty 
of small money in my possession, and as I felt obliged to him for 
having purchased my horses at what I considered to be a good 
price, I informed him that I should be very happy to accommo- 
date him ; so I changed him the note, and he, having taken 
possession of the horses, went his way, and I myself returned 
home. “ A month passed ; during this time I paid away two of 
the notes which I had received at Horncastle from the dealer — 
one of them in my immediate neighbourhood, and the other at a 
town about fifteen miles distant, to which I had repaired for the 
purpose of purchasing some furniture. All things seemed to be 
going on most prosperously, and I felt quite happy, when one 
morning, as I was overlooking some workmen who were employed 
about my house, I was accosted by a constable, who informed me 
that he was sent to request my immediate appearance before a* 
neighbouring bench of magistrates. Concluding that I was merely 
summoned on some unimportant business connected with the 
neighbourhood, I felt no surprise, and forthwith departed in 
company with the officer. The demeanour of the man upon the 
way struck me as somewhat singular. I had frequently spoken 

13 


194 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


to him before, and had always found him civil and respectful, 
but he was now reserved and sullen, and replied to two or three 
questions which I put to him in anything but a courteous manner. 
On arriving at the place where the magistrates were sitting — an 
inn at a small town about two miles distant — I found a more than 
usual number of people assembled, who appeared to be conversing 
with considerable eagerness. At sight of me they became silent, 
but crowded after me as I followed the man into the magistrates 
room. There I found the tradesman to whom I had paid the 
note for the furniture at the town fifteen miles off in attendance, 
accompanied by an agent of the Bank of England ; the former, 
it seems, had paid the note into a provincial bank, the proprietors 
of which, discovering it to be a forgery, had forthwith written up 
to the Bank of England, who had sent down their agent to investi- 
gate the matter. A third individual stood beside them — the 
person in my own immediate neighbourhood to whom I had paid 
the second note ; this, by some means or other, before the coming 
down of the agent, had found its way to the same provincial bank, 
and also being pronounced a forgery, it had speedily been traced 
to the person to whom I had paid it. It was owing to the appari- 
tion of this second note that the agent had determined, without 
further inquiry, to cause me to be summoned before the rural 
tribunal. 

“ In a few words the magistrates’ clerk gave me to understand 
the state of the case. I was filled with surprise and consternation. 
I knew myself to be perfectly innocent of any fraudulent intention, 
but at the time of which I am speaking it was a matter fraught 
with the greatest danger to be mixed up, however innocently, 
with the passing of false money. The law with respect to forgery 
was terribly severe, and the innocent as well as the guilty occasion- 
ally suffered. Of this I was not altogether ignorant ; unfortu- 
nately, however, in my transactions with the stranger, the idea of 
false notes being offered to me, and my being brought into trouble 
by means of them, never entered my mind. Recovering myself 
a little, I stated that the notes in question were two of three notes 
which I had received at Horncastle, for a pair of horses, which 
it was well known I had carried thither. 

“ Thereupon, I produced from my pocket-book the third note, 
which was forthwith pronounced a forgery. I had scarcely pro- 
duced the third note, when I remembered the one which I had 
changed for the Horncastle dealer, and with the remembrance 
came the almost certain conviction that it was also a forgery ; I 
was tempted for a moment to produce it, and to explain the cir- 


1825.] 


HISTORY CONTINUED. 


195 


cumstance — would to God I had done so ! — but shame at the idea 
of having been so wretchedly duped prevented me, and the 
opportunity was lost. I must confess that the agent of the bank 
behaved, upon the whole, in a very handsome manner; he said 
that as it was quite evident that I had disposed of certain horses 
at the fair, it was very possible that I might have received the 
notes in question in exchange for them, and that he was willing, 
as he had received a very excellent account of my general conduct, 

to press the matter no further, that is, provided ” And here 

he stopped. Thereupon, one of the three magistrates who were 
present asked me whether I chanced to have any more of these 
spurious notes in my possession. He certainly had a right to ask 
the question ; but there was something peculiar in his tone — 
insinuating suspicion. It is certainly difficult to judge of the 
motives which rule a person’s conduct, but I cannot help imagin- 
ing that *he was somewhat influenced in his behaviour on that 
occasion, which was anything but friendly, by my having refused 
to sell him the horses at a price less than that which I expected 
to get at the fair ; be this as it may, the question filled me with 
embarrassment, and I bitterly repented not having at first been more 
explicit. Thereupon the magistrate, in the same kind of tone, 
demanded to see my pocket-book. I knew that to demur would 
be Useless, and produced it, and therewith, amongst two or three 
small country notes, appeared the fourth which I had revived 
from the Horncastle dealer. The agent took it up and examined 
it with attention. ‘ Well, is it a genuine note ? ’ asked the magis- 
trate. ‘ I am sorry to say that it is not,’ said the agent ; ‘ it is a 
forgery, like the other three.’ The magistrate shrugged his 
shoulders, as indeed did several people in the room. ‘ A regular 
dealer in forged notes,’ said a person close behind me ; ^ who 
would have thought it ? ’ 

“ Seeing matters begin to look so serious, I aroused myself, and 
endeavoured to speak in my own behalf, giving a candid account 
of the manner in which I became possessed of the notes, but my 
explanation did not appear to meet much credit. The magistrate, 
to whom I have in particular alluded, asked, why I had not at 
once stated the fact of my having received a fourth note ; and the 
agent, though in a very quiet tone, observed that he could not help 
thinking it somewhat strange that I should have changed a note of 
so much value for a perfect stranger, even supposing that he had 
purchased my horses, and had paid me their value in hard cash ; 
and I noticed that he laid particular emphasis on the last words. 
I might have observed that I was an inexperienced young man. 


196 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


who, meaning no harm myself, suspected none in others, but I 
was confused, stunned, and my tongue seemed to cleave to the 
roof of my mouth. The men who had taken my horses to Horn- 
castle, and for whom I had sent, as they lived close at hand, now 
arrived, but the evidence which they could give was anything but 
conclusive in my favour ; they had seen me in company with an 
individual at Horncastle, to whom, by my orders, they had de- 
livered certain horses, but they had seen no part of the money 
transaction ; the fellow, whether from design or not, , having 
taken me aside into a retired place, where he had paid me 
three spurious notes, and induced me to change the fourth, 
which throughout the affair was what bore most materially against 
me. How matters might have terminated I do not know ; I might 

have gone to prison, and I might have been Just then, when 

I most needed a friend, and least expected to find one, for though 
amongst those present there were several who were my neighbours, 
and who had professed friendship for me, none of them when they 
saw that I needed support and encouragement, came forward to yield 
me any, but, on the contrary, appeared by their looks to enjoy my 
terror and confusion — just then a friend entered the room in the 
person of the surgeon of the neighbourhood, the father of him 
who has attended you ; he was not on very intimate terms with 
me, but he had occasionally spoken to me, and had attended my 
father in his dying illness, and chancing to hear that I was in 
trouble, he now hastened to assist me. After a short preamble, 
in which he apologised to the bench for interfering, he begged to 
be informed of the state of the case, whereupon the matter was 
laid before him in all its details. He was not slow in taking a fair 
view of it, and spoke well and eloquently in my behalf, insisting 
on the improbability that a person of my habits and position would 
be wilfully mixed up with a transaction like that of which it appeared 
I was suspected, adding, that as he was fully convinced of my 
innocence, he was ready to enter into any surety with respect to 
my appearance at any time to answer anything which might be 
laid to my charge. This last observation had particular effect, and 
as he was a person universally respected, both for his skill in his 
profession and his general demeanour, people began to think that 
a person in whom he took an interest could scarcely be concerned 
in anything criminal, and though my friend the magistrate — I call 
him so ironically — made two or three demurs, it was at last agreed 
between him and his brethren of the bench, that, for the present, I 
should be merely called upon to enter into my own recognisance 
for the sum of two hundred pounds, to appear whenever it should 


1825.] 


HISTORY CONTINUED. 


197 


be deemed requisite to enter into any further investigation of the 
matter. 

“ So I was permitted to depart from the tribunal of petty justice 
without handcuffs, and uncollared by a constable; but people 
looked coldly and suspiciously upon me. The first thing I did 
was to hasten to the house of my beloved, in order to inform her 
of every circumstance attending the transaction. I found her, but 
how ? A malicious female individual had hurried to her with a 
distorted tale, to the effect that I had been taken up as an utterer 
of forged notes ; that an immense number had been found in my 
possession ; that I was already committed, and that probably I 
should be executed. My affianced one tenderly loved me, and her 
constitution was delicate ; fit succeeded fit ; she broke a blood- 
vessel, and I found her deluged in blood ; the surgeon had just 
been sent for ; he came and afforded her every possible relief. 
I was distracted ; he bade me have hope, but I observed he 
looked very grave. 

“ By the skill of the surgeon, the poor girl was saved in the 
first instance from the arms of death, and for a few weeks she 
appeared to be rapidly recovering ; by degrees, however, she be- 
came melancholy ; a worm preyed upon her spirit ; a slow fever 
took possession of her frame. I subsequently learned that the 
same malicious female who had first carried to her an exaggerated 
account of the affair, and who was a distant relative of her own, 
frequently visited her, and did all in her power to excite her fears 
with respect to its eventual termination. Time passed on in a 
very wretched manner, our friend the surgeon showing to us both 
every mark of kindness and attention. 

“ It was owing to this excellent man that my innocence was 
eventually established. Having been called to a town on the borders 
of Yorkshire to a medical consultation, he chanced to be taking a 
glass of wine with the landlord of the inn at which he stopped, 
when the waiter brought in a note to be changed, saying, ‘ That 
the Quaker gentleman, who had been for some days in the house, 
and was about to depart, had sent it to be changed, in order that 
he might pay his bill". The landlord took the note, and looked 
at it. ‘ A fifty-pound bill,’ said he ; ‘ I don’t like changing bills of 
that amount, lest they should prove bad ones ; however, as it comes 
from a Quaker gentleman, I suppose it is all right.’ The mention 
of a fifty-pound note aroused the attention of my friend, and he 
requested to be permitted to look at it ; he had scarcely seen it, 
when he was convinced that it was one of the same description as 
those which had brought me into trouble, as it corresponded with 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


198 


[1825. 


them in two particular features, which the agent of the bank had 
pointed out to him and others as evidence of their spuriousness. 
My friend, without a moment’s hesitation, informed the landlord 
that the note was a bad one, expressing at the same time a great 
wish to see the Quaker gentleman who wanted to have it changed. 

‘ That you can easily do,’ said the landlord, and forthwith con- 
ducted him into the common room, where he saw a respectable- 
looking man, dressed like a Quaker, and seemingly about sixty 
years of age. 

“ My friend, after a short apology, showed him the note which 
he held in his hand, stating that he had no doubt it was a spurious 
one, and begged to be informed where he had taken it, adding, that a 
particular friend of his was at present in trouble, owing to his having 
taken similar notes from a stranger at Horncastle; but that he hoped 
that he, the Quaker, could give information, by means of which the 
guilty party, or parties, could be arrested. At the mention of Horn- 
castle, it appeared to my friend that the Quaker gave a slight start. 
At the conclusion of this speech, however, he answered with great 

tranquillity, that he had received it in the way of business at 

naming one of the principal towns in Yorkshire, from a very 
respectable person, whose name he was perfectly willing to 
communicate, and likewise his own, which he said was James, 
and that he was a merchant residing at Liverpool ; that he would 

write to his friend at , requesting him to make inquiries on 

the subject ; that just at that moment he was in a hurry to depart, 
having some particular business at a town about ten miles off, to 
go to which he had bespoken a post-chaise of the landlord ; that 
with respect to the note, it was doubtless a very disagreeable thing 
to have a suspicious one in his possession, but that it would make 
little difference to him, as he had plenty of other money, and 
thereupon he pulled out a purse, containing various other notes, 
and some gold, observing, ‘ that his only motive for wishing to 
change the other note* was a desire to be well provided with 
change ’ ; and finally, that if they had any suspicion with respect 
to him, he was perfectly willing to leave the note in their possession 
till he should return, which he intended to do in about a fortnight. 
There was so much plausibility in the speech of the Quaker, and 
his appearance and behaviour were so perfectly respectable, that 
my friend felt almost ashamed of the suspicion which at first he 
had entertained of him, though, at the same time, he felt an un- 
accountable unwillingness to let the man depart without some 
further interrogation. The landlord, however, who did not wish 
to disoblige one who had been, and might probably be again, a 


1825.] 


HISTORY CONCLUDED, 


199 


profitable customer, declared that he was perfectly satisfied, and 
that he had no wish to detain the note, which he made no 
doubt the gentleman had received in the way of business, and that 
as the matter concerned him alone, he would leave it to him to 
make the necessary inquiries. ‘Just as you please, friend,’ said 
the Quaker, pocketing the suspicious note ; ‘ I will now pay my 
bill.’ Thereupon he discharged the bill with a five-pound note, 
which he begged the landlord to inspect carefully, and with two 
pieces of gold. 

“The landlord had just taken the money, receipted the bill, 
and was bowing to his customer, when the door opened, and a lad, 
dressed in a kind of grey livery, appeared, and informed the 
Quaker that the chaise was ready. ‘ Is that boy your servant ? ’ 
said the surgeon. ‘ He is, friend,’ said the Quaker. ‘ Hast thou 
any reason for asking me that question ? ’ ‘ And has he been long 

in your service ? ’ ‘ Several years,’ replied the Quaker ; ‘ I took him 

into my house out of compassion, he being an orphan, but as the 
chaise is waiting, I will bid thee farewell.’ ‘ I am afraid I must 
stop your journey for the present,’ said the surgeon ; ‘ that boy has 
exactly the same blemish in the eye which a boy had who was in 
company with the man at Horncastle, from whom my friend re- 
ceived the forged notes, and who there passed for his son.’ ‘ I 
know nothing about that,’ said the Quaker, ‘ but I am determined 
to be detained here no longer, after the satisfactory account which 
I have given as to the note’s coming into my possession.’ He then 
attempted to leave the room, but my friend detained him, a struggle 
ensued, during which a wig which the Quaker wore fell off, where- 
upon he instantly appeared to lose some twenty years of his age. 
‘ Knock the fellow down, father,’ said the boy ; ‘ I’ll help you.’ 

“ And, forsooth, the pretended Quaker took the boy’s advice, 
and knocked my friend down in a twinkling. The landlord, how- 
ever, and waiter, seeing how matters stood, instantly laid hold of 
him ; but there can be no doubt that he would have escaped from 
the whole three, had not certain guests who were in the house, 
hearing the noise, rushed in, and helped to secure him. The boy 
was true to his word, assisting him to the best of his ability, flinging 
himself between the legs of his father’s assailants, causing several 
of them to stumble and fall. At length, the fellow was secured, 
and led before a magistrate ; the boy, to whom he was heard to 
say something which nobody understood, and to whom, after the 
man’s capture, no one paid much attention, was no more seen. 

“ The rest, as far as this man was concerned, may be told in a 
few words ; nothing to criminate him was found on his person, but 


200 


THE ROM ANY -RYE, 


[1825. 


on his baggage being examined, a quantity of spurious notes was 
discovered. Much of his hardihood now forsook him, and in the 
hope of saving his life he made some very important disclosures ; 
amongst other things, he confessed that it was he who had given 
me the notes in exchange for the horses, and also the note to be 
changed. He was subsequently tried on two indictments, in the 
second of which I appeared against him. He was condemned to 
die; but, in consideration of the disclosures he had made, his 
sentence was commuted to perpetual transportation. 

“ My innocence was thus perfectly established before the eyes 
of the world, and all my friends hastened to congratulate me. 
There was one who congratulated me more than all the rest — it 
was my beloved one, but — but — she was dying ” 

Here the old man drew his hand before his eyes, and remained 
for some time without speaking ; at length he removed his hand, 
and commenced again with a broken voice : “You will pardon me 
if I hurry over this part of my story ; I am unable to dwell upon 
it. How dwell upon a period when I saw my only earthly 
treasure pine away gradually day by day, and knew that nothing 
could Save her ! She saw my agony, and did all she could to 
console me, saying that she was herself quite resigned. A little 
time before her death she expressed a wish that we should be united. 
I was too happy to comply with her request. We were united, I 
brought her to this house, where, in less than a week, she expired 
in my arms.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


After another pause, the old man once more resumed his narra- 
tion : “If ever there was a man perfectly miserable it was myself, 
after the loss of that cherished woman. I sat solitary in the house, 
in which I had hoped in her company to realise the choicest earthly 
happiness, a prey to the bitterest reflections ; many people visited, 
and endeavoured to console me. Amongst them was the clergyman 
of the parish, who begged me to be resigned, and told me that it 
was good to be afflicted. I bowed my head, but I could not help 
thinking how easy it must be for those who feel no affliction to bid 
others to be resigned, and to talk of the benefit resulting from 
sorrow ; perhaps I should have paid more attention to his dis- 
course than I did, provided he had been a person for whom it 
was possible to entertain much respect, but his own heart was 
known to be set on the things of this world. 

“Within a little time he had an opportunity, in his own case, 
of practising resignation, and of realising the benefit of being 
afflicted. A merchant, to whom he had entrusted all his fortune, 
in the hope of a large interest, became suddenly a bankrupt, with 
scarcely any assets. I will not say that it was owing to this mis- 
fortune that the divine died in less than a month after its occur- 
rence, but such was the fact. Amongst those who most frequently 
visited me was rny friend the surgeon ; he did not confine himself 
to the common topics of consolation, but endeavoured to impress 
upon me the necessity of rousing myself, advising me to occupy 
my mind with some pursuit, particularly recommending agriculture ; 
but agriculture possessed no interest for me, nor, indeed, any 
pursuit within my reach ; my hopes of happiness had been blighted, 
and what cared I for anything ? so at last he thought it best to 
leave me to myself, hoping that time would bring with it consola- 
tion ; and I remained solitary in my house, waited upon by a 
male and a female servant. Oh, what dreary moments I passed ! 
My only amusement — and it was a sad one — was to look at the 
things which once belonged to my beloved, and which were now 
in my possession. Oh, how fondly would I dwell upon them ! 
There were some books ; I cared not for books, but these had 


202 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


belonged to my beloved. Oh, how fondly did I dwell on them ! 
Then there was her hat and bonnet — oh, me, how fondly did I 
gaze upon them ! and after looking at her things for hours, I 
would sit and ruminate on the happiness I had lost. How I 
execrated the moment I had gone to the fair to sell horses ! 

‘ Would that I had never been at Horncastle to sell horses ! ’ I 
would say ; ‘I might at this moment have been enjoying the 
company of my beloved, leading a happy, quiet, easy life, but for 
that fatal expedition ; ’ that thought worked on my brain, till my 
brain seemed to turn round. 

“ One day 1 sat at the breakfast-table gazing vacantly around 
me ; my mind was in a state of inexpressible misery ; there was a 
whirl in my brain, probably like that which people feel who are 
rapidly going mad; this increased to such a degree that I felt 
giddiness coming upon me. To abate this feeling I no longer 
permitted my eyes to wander about, but fixed them upon an 
object on the table, and continued gazing at it for several minutes 
without knowing what it was ; at length, the misery in my head 
was somewhat stilled, my lips moved, and I heard myself saying, 

‘ What odd marks ! ’ I had fastened my eyes on the side of a 
teapot, and by keeping them fixed upon it, had become aware of 
a fact that had escaped my notice before — namely, that there 
were marks upon it. I kept my eyes fixed upon them, and 
repeated at intervals, ‘ What strange marks ! ’ for I thought 
that looking upon the marks tended to abate the whirl in my 
head. I kept tracing the marks one after the other, and I ob- 
served that though they all bore a general resemblance to each 
other, they were all to a certain extent different. The smallest 
portion possible of curious interest had been awakened within 
me, and, at last, I asked myself, within my own mind : ‘ What 
motive could induce people to put such odd marks on their 
crockery ? They were pot pictures, they were not letters ; what 
motive could people have for putting them there ? ’ At last, I 
removed my eyes from the teapot, and thought for a few moments 
about the marks ; presently, however, I felt the whirl returning ; 
the marks became almost effaced from my mind, and I was be- 
ginning to revert to my miserable ruminations, when suddenly 
meth ought I heard a voice say : ‘ The marks ! the marks ! cling 

to the marks ! or ’ So I fixed my eyes again upon the 

marks, inspecting them more attentively, if possible, than I had 
done before, and, at last, I came to the conclusion that they were 
not capricious or fanciful marks, but were arranged systematically ; 
when I had gazed at them for a considerable time, I turned the 


1825.1 


THE STRANGE MARKS, 


203 


teapot round, and on the other side I observed marks of a similar 
kind, which I soon discovered were identical with the ones I had 
been observing. All the marks were something alike, but all 
somewhat different, and on comparing them with each other, I 
was struck with the frequent occurrence of a mark crossing an 
upright line, or projecting from it, now on the right, now on the 
left side ; and I said to myself : ‘ Why does this mark sometimes 
cross the upright line, and sometimes project ? ’ and the more I 
thought on the matter, the less did I feel of the misery in my 
head. 

“ The things were at length removed, and I sat, as I had for 
some time past been wont to sit after my meals, silent and motion- 
less ; but in the present instance my mind was not entirely aban- 
doned to the one mournful idea which had so long distressed it. 
It was, to a certain extent, occupied with the marks on the teapot ; 
it is true that the mournful idea strove hard with the marks on 
the teapot for the mastery in my mind, and at last the painful idea 
drove the marks of the teapot out ; they, however, would occasion- 
ally return and flit across my mind for a moment or two, and their 
coming was like a momentary relief from intense pain. I thought 
once or twice that I would have the teapot placed before me, that 
I might examine the marks at leisure, but I considered that it 
would be as well to defer the re-examination of the marks till the 
next morning ; at that time I did not take tea of an evening. By 
deferring the examination thus, I had something to look forward 
to on the next morning. The day was a melancholy one, but it 
certainly was more tolerable to me than any of the others had 
been since the death of my beloved. As I lay awake that night 
I occasionally thought of the marks, and in my sleep methought 
I saw them upon the teapot vividly before me. On the morrow, 
I examined the marks again ; how singular they looked ! Surely 
they must mean something, and if so, what could they mean? 
and at last I thought within myself whether it would be possible 
for me to make out what they meant : that day I felt more relief 
than on the preceding one, and towards night I walked a little 
about. 

“ In about a week’s time I received a visit from my friend the 
surgeon ; after a little discourse, he told me that he perceived 
I was better than when he had last seen me, and asked me what 
I had been about ; I told him that I had been principally occupied 
in considering certain marks which I had found on a teapot, and 
wondering what they could mean ; he smiled at first, but instantly 
assuming a serious look, he asked to see the teapot. I produced 


204 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


it, and after having surveyed the marks with attention, he observed 
that they were highly curious, and also wondered what they meant. 
‘ I strongly advise you,’ said he, ‘ to attempt to make them out, 
and also to take moderate exercise, and to see after your concerns.’ 
I followed his advice ; every morning I studied the marks on the 
teapot, and in the course of the day took moderate exercise, and 
attended to little domestic matters, as became the master of a 
house. 

“ I subsequently learned that the surgeon, in advising me to 
study the marks, and endeavour to make out their meaning, 
merely hoped that by means of them my mind might by degrees 
be diverted from the mournful idea on which it had so long 
brooded. He was a man well skilled in his profession, but had 
read and thought very little on matters unconnected with it. He 
had no idea that the marks had any particular signification, or 
were anything else but common and fortuitous ones. That I 
became at all acquainted with their nature was owing to a ludi- 
crous circumstance which I will now relate. 

“One day, chancing to be at a neighbouring town, I was 
struck with the appearance of a shop recently established. It had 
an immense bow-window, and every part of it, to which a brush 
could be applied, was painted in a gaudy flaming style. Large 
bowls of green and black tea were placed upon certain chests, 
which stood at the window. I stopped to look at them, such a 
display, whatever it may be at the present time, being at the 
period of which I am speaking, quite uncommon in a country 
town. The tea, whether black or green, was very shining and 
inviting, and the bowls, of which there were three, standing on 
as many chests, were very grand and foreign looking. Two of 
these were white, with figures and trees painted upon them in blue ; 
the other, which was the middlemost, had neither trees nor figures 
upon it, but as I looked through the window, appeared to have 
on its sides the very same kind of marks which I had observed 
on the teapot at home ; there were also marks on the tea-chests, 
somewhat similar, but much larger, and apparently, not executed 
with so much care. ‘ Best teas direct from China,’ said a voice 
close to my side ; and looking round I saw a youngish man, with 
a frizzled head, flat face, and an immensely wide mouth, standing 
in his shirt-sleeves by the door. ‘ Direct from China,’ said he ; 

‘ perhaps you will do me the favour to walk in and scent them ? ’ 
‘I do not want any tea,’ said I; ‘I was only standing at the 
window examining those marks on the bowl and the chests. I 
have observed similar ones on a teapot at home.’ ‘ Pray walk in. 


1825.] 


THE TEA-DEALER. 


205 


sir,’ said the young fellow, extending his mouth till it reached 
nearly from ear to ear; ‘pray walk in, and I shall be happy to 
give you any information respecting the manners and customs of 
the Chinese in my power.’ Thereupon I followed him into his 
shop, where he began to harangue on the manners, customs and 
peculiarities of the Chinese, especially their manner of preparing 
tea, not forgetting to tell me that the only genuine Chinese tea ever 
imported into England was to be found in his shop. ‘ With 
respect to those marks,’ said he, ‘ on the bowl and chests, they are 
nothing more nor less than Chinese writing, expressing something, 
though what I can’t exactly tell you. Allow me to sell you this 
pound of tea,’ he added, showing me a paper parcel. ‘ On the 
envelope there is a printed account of the Chinese system of 
writing, extracted from authors of the most established reputation. 
These things I print principally with the hope of, in some degree, 
removing the worse than Gothic ignorance prevalent amongst the 
natives of these parts. I am from London myself. With respect 
to all that relates to the Chinese real imperial tea, I assure you 

sir, that ’ Well, to make short of what you doubtless consider 

a very tiresome story, I purchased the tea and carried it home. 
The tea proved imperially bad, but the paper envelope really 
contained some information on the Chinese language and writing, 
amounting to about as much as you gained from me the other day. 
On learning that the marks on the teapot expressed words, I felt 
my interest with respect to them considerably increased and 
returned to the task of inspecting them with greater zeal than 
before, hoping, by continually looking at them, to be able even- 
tually to understand their meaning, in which hope you may easily 
oelieve I was disappointed, though my desire to understand what 
they represented continued on the increase. In this dilemma 
I determined to apply again to the shopkeeper from whom I 
bought the tea. I found him in rather low spirits, his shirt-sleeves 
were soiled, and his hair was out of curl. On my inquiring how 
he got on, he informed me that he intended speedily to leave, 
having received little or no encouragement, the people, in their 
Gothic ignorance, preferring to deal with an old-fashioned shop- 
keeper over the way, who, so far from possessing any acquaintance 
with the polity and institutions of the Chinese, did not, he firmly 
believed, know that tea came from China. ‘You are come for 
some more, I suppose?’ said he. On receiving an answer in the 
negative he looked somewhat blank, but when I added that I came 
to consult with him as to the means which I must take in order to 
acquire the Chinese language he brightened up. ‘ You must get 


206 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


a grammar,’ said he, rubbing his hands. ‘ Have you not one?’ 
said I. ‘ No,’ he replied, ‘ but any bookseller can procure you 
one.’ As I was taking my departure, he told me that as he was 
about to leave the neighbourhood, the bowl at the window, which 
bore the inscription, besides some other pieces of porcelain of a 
similar description, were at my service, provided I chose to pur- 
chase them. I consented, and two or three days afterwards took 
from off his hands all the china in his possession which bore inscrip- 
tions, paying what he demanded. Had I waited till the sale of 
his effects, which occurred within a few weeks, I could probably 
have procured it for a fifth part of the sum which I paid, the 
other pieces realising very little. I did not, however, grudge the 
poor fellow what he got from me, as I considered myself to be 
somewhat in his debt for the information he had afforded me. 

“ As for the rest of my story it may be briefly told. I followed 
the advice of the shopkeeper, and applied to a bookseller who 
wrote to his correspondent in London. After a long interval, I 
was informed that if I wished to learn Chinese I must do so through 
the medium of French, there being neither Chinese grammar nor 
dictionary in our language. I was at first very much disheartened. 
I determined, however, at last to gratify my desire of learning 
Chinese, even at the expense of learning French. I procured 
the books, and in order to qualify myself to turn them to 
account, took lessons in French from a little Swiss, the usher of 
a neighbouring boarding-school. I was very stupid in acquiring 
French ; perseverance, however, enabled me to acquire a know- 
ledge sufficient for the object I had in view. In about two years 
I began to study Chinese by myself, through the medium of the 
French.” 

“ Well,” said I, “and how did you get on with the study of 
the Chinese ? ” 

And then the old man proceeded to inform me how he got on 
with the study of Chinese, enumerated all the difficulties he had 
had to encounter; dilating upon his frequent despondency of mind, 
and occasionally his utter despair of ever mastering Chinese. He 
told me that more that once he had determined upon giving up 
the study, but then the misery in his head forthwith returned, to 
escape from which he had as often resumed it. It appeared, 
however, that ten years elapsed before he was able to use ten of 
the two hundred and fourteen keys, which serve to undo the 
locks of Chinese writing. 

“And are you able at present to use the entire number?” I 
demanded. 


THE CHINESE LANGUAGE, 


207 


1825.] 


“Yes,” said the old man ; “ I can at present use the whole 
number. I know the key for every particular lock, though I 
frequently find the wards unwilling to give way.” 

“Has nothing particular occurred to you,” said I, “during 
the time that you have been prosecuting your studies ? ” 

“ During the whole time in which I have been engaged in 
these studies,” said the old man, “ only one circumstance has 
occurred which requires any particular mention — the death of my 
old friend the surgeon — who was carried off suddenly by a fit of 
apoplexy. His death was a great shock to me, and for a time in- 
terrupted my studies. His son, however, who succeeded him, 
was very kind to me, and, in some degree, supplied his father’s 
place ; and I gradually returned to my Chinese locks and keys.” 

“ And in applying keys to the Chinese locks you employ your 
time ? ” 

“Yes,” said the old man ; “ in making out the inscriptions on 
the various pieces of porcelain, which I have at different times 
procured, I pass my time. The first inscription which I translated 
was that on the teapot of my beloved.” 

“ And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at 
present in your possession ? ” 

“About fifteen hundred.” 

“ And how did you obtain them ? ” I demanded. 

“Without much labour,” said the old man, “in the neigh- 
bouring towns and villages —chiefly at auctions, of which, about 
twenty years ago, there were many in these parts.” 

“ And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies 
entirely to the crockery literature of China, when you have all 
the rest at your disposal? ” 

“The inscriptions enable me to pass my time,” said the old 
man ; “ what more would the whole literature of China do ? ” 

“ And from those inscriptions,” said I, “ what a book it is in 
your power to make, whenever so disposed. ‘ Translations from 
the crockery literature of China.’ Such a book would be sure to 
take ; even glorious John himself would not disdain to publish it.” 

The old man smiled. “ I have no desire for literary distinction,” 
said he ; “no ambition. My original wish was to pass my life in 
easy, quiet obscurity, with her whom I loved. I was disappointed 
in my wish ; she was removed, who constituted my only felicity 
in this life ; desolation came to my heart, and misery to my head. 
To escape from the latter I had recourse to Chinese. By degrees 
the misery left my head, but the desolation of the heart yet 
remains.” 


208 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“Be of good cheer,” said I ; “through the instrumentality of 
this affliction you have learnt Chinese, and, in so doing, learnt to 
practice the duties of hospitality. Who but a man who could 
read Runes on a teapot, would have received an unfortunate 
wayfarer as you have received me?” 

“Well,” said the old man, “let us hope that all is for the 
best. I am by nature indolent, and, but for this affliction, 
should, perhaps, have hardly taken the trouble to do my duty to 
my fellow-creatures. I am very, very indolent,” said he, slightly 
glancing towards the clock ; “therefore let us hope that all is for 
the best ; but, oh ! these trials, they are very hard to bear.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


The next morning, having breakfasted with my old friend, I went 
into the stable to make the necessary preparations for my depar- 
ture; there, with the assistance of a stable lad, I cleaned and 
caparisoned my horse, and then, returning into the house, I made 
the old female attendant such a present as I deemed would be 
some compensation for the trouble I had caused. Hearing that 
the old gentleman was in his study, I repaired to him. “ I am 
come to take leave of you,” said I, “and to thank you for all the 
hospitality which I have received at your hands.” The eyes of 
the old man were fixed steadfastly on the inscription which I had 
found him studying on a former occasion. “At length,” he 
murmured to himself, “ I have it — I think I have it ; ” and then, 
looking at me, he said : “ So you are about to depart ? ” 

“ Yes,” said I ; “my horse will be at the front door in a few 
minutes ; I am glad, however, before I go, to find that you have 
mastered the inscription.” 

“ Yes,” said the old man, “ I believe I have mastered it ; it 
seems to consist of some verses relating to the worship of the 
Spirit of the Hearth.” 

“ What is the Spirit of the Hearth ? ” said I. 

“ One of the many demons which the Chinese worship,” said 
the old man ; “ they do not worship one God, but many.” And 
then the old man told me a great many highly interesting parti- 
culars respecting the demon worship of the Chinese. 

After the lapse of at least half an hour I said : “I must not 
linger here any longer, however willing. Horncastle is distant, 
and I wish to be there to-night. Pray can you inform me what’s 
o’clock ? ” 

The old man, rising, looked towards the clock which hung on 
the side of the room at his left hand, on the farther side of the 
table at which he was seated. 

“ I am rather short-sighted,” said I, “and cannot distinguish 
the numbers at that distance.” 

“ It is ten o’clock.” said the old man ; “ I believe somewhat 


past.” 


(209) 


14 


210 


» THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ A quarter, perhaps ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the old man, “ a quarter or ” 

“Or?” 

“ Seven minutes, or ten minutes past ten.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ Why, to tell you the truth,” said the old man with a smile, 
“there is one thing to the knowledge of which I could never 
exactly attain.” 

“ Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you do not know what’s 
o’clock ? ” 

“ I can give a guess,” said the old man, “ to within a few 
minutes.” 

“ But you cannot tell the exact moment? ” 

“ No,” said the old man. 

“ In the name of wonder,” said I, “ with that thing there on 
the wall continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do 
not know what’s o’clock? ” 

“ Why,” said the old man, “ I have contented myself with 
giving a tolerably good guess ; to do more would have been too 
great trouble.” 

“ But you have learnt Chinese,” said I. 

“Yes,” said the old man, “ I have learnt Chinese.” 

“ Well,” said I, “I really would counsel you to learn to know 
what’s o’clock as soon as possible. Consider what a sad thing it 
would be to go out of the world not knowing what’s o’clock. A 
millionth part of the trouble required to learn Chinese would, if 
employed, infallibly teach you to know what’s o’clock.” 

“ I had a motive for learning Chinese,” said the old man ; 
“ the hope of appeasing the misery in my head. With respect to 
not knowing what’s o’clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad 
in the matter. A man may get through the world very creditably 
without knowing what’s o’clock. Yet, upon the whole, it is no 
bad thing to know what’s o’clock — you, of course, do. It would 
be too good a joke if two people were to be together, one knowing 
Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing what’s 
o’clock. I’ll now see you off.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


Leaving the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could 
not tell what was o’clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which 
I reached in the evening of the same day, without having met any 
adventure on the way worthy of being< marked down in this very 
remarkable history. 

The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded 
with people and horses. I proceeded, without delay, to the inn 
to which my friend the surgeon had directed me. “ It is of no 
use coming here,” said two or three ostlers, as I entered the yard 
— “ all full — no room whatever ” ; whilst one added in an under- 
tone, “That ere a’n’t a bad-looking horse “I want to see the 
master of this inn,” said I, as I dismounted from the horse. “ See 
the master,” said an ostler — the same who had paid the negative 
kind of compliment to the horse — “a likely thing, truly; my 
master is drinking wine with some of the grand gentry, and can’t 
be disturbed for the sake of the like of you.” “ I bring a letter 
to him,” said I, pulling out the surgeon’s epistle. “ I wish you 
would deliver it to him,” I added, offering a half-crown. “ Oh, 
it’s you, is it?” said the ostler, taking the letter and the half- 
crown ; my master will be right glad to see you ; why, you ha’ n’t 
been here for many a year ; I’ll carry the note to him at once.” 
And with these words he hurried into the house. “That’s a 
nice horse, young man,” said another ostler; “what will you take 
for it? ” to which interrogation I made no answer. “ If you wish 
to sell him,” said the ostler, coming up to me, and winking know- 
ingly, “ I think I and my partners might offer you a summut 
under seventy pounds,” to which kind of half-insinuated offer 
I made no reply, save by winking in the same kind of knowing 
manner in which I had observed him wink. “ Rather leary !” said 
a third ostler. “ Well, young man, perhaps you will drink to-night 
with me and my partners, when we can talk the matter over.” 
Before I had time to answer, the landlord, a well-dressed, good- 
looking man, made his appearance with the ostler ; he bore the 
letter in his hand. Without glancing at me, he betoolj^ himself 


212 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


at once to consider the horse, going round him and observing 
every point with the utmost minuteness. At last, after having gone 
round the horse three times, he stopped beside me, and keeping 
his eyes on the horse, bent his head towards his right shoulder. 
“That horse is worth' some money,” said he, turning towards me 
suddenly, and slightly touching me on the arm with the letter 
which ne held in his hand ; to which observation I made no reply, 
save by bending my head towards the right shoulder as I had seen 
him do. “ The young man is going to talk to me and my partners 
about it to-night,” said the ostler who had expressed an opinion that 
he and his friends might offer me somewhat under seventy pounds 
for the animal. “Pooh!” said the landlord, “the young man 
knows what he is about ; in the meantime, lead the horse to the 
reserved stall, and see well after him. My friend,” said he, taking 
me aside after the ostler had led the animal away, “ recommends 
you to me in the strongest manner, on which account alone I take 
you and your horse in. I need not advise you not to be taken in, 
as I should say, by your look, that you are tolerably awake ; but 
there are queer hands at Horncastle at this time, and those fellows 

of mine, you understand me ; but I have a great deal to 

do at present, so you must excuse me.” And thereupon went 
into the house. 

That same evening I was engaged at least two hours in the 
stable, in rubbing the horse down, and preparing him for the ex- 
hibition which I intended he should make in the fair on the 
following day. The ostler to whom I had given the half-crown 
occasionally assisted me, though he was too much occupied by the 
horses of other guests to devote any length of time to the service 
of mine ; he more than once repeated to me his firm conviction 
that himself and partners could afford to offer me summut for the 
horse ; and at a later hour w^hen, in compliance with his invitation, 
I took a glass of summut with himself and partners, in a little room 
surrounded with corn-chests, on which we sat, both himself and 
partners endeavoured to impress upon me, chiefly by means of 
nods and winks, their conviction that they could aferd to give me 
summut for the horse, provided I were disposed to sell him ; in 
return for which intimation, with as many nods and winks as they 
had all collectively used, I endeavoured to impress upon them 
my conviction that I could get summut handsomer in the fair 
than they might be disposed to offer me, seeing as how — which 
how I followed by a wink and a nod, which they seemed perfectly 
to understand, one or two of them declaring that if the case was 
so it made a great deal of difference, and that they did not wish 


1825.] 


’•^DON^T KNOW THE COVE: 


213 


to be any hindrance to me, more particularly as it was quite clear 
I had been an ostler like themselves. 

It was late at night when I began to think of retiring to rest. 
On inquiring if there was any place in which I could sleep, I was 
informed that there was a bed at my service, provided I chose to 
sleep in a two-bedded room, one of the beds of which was engaged 
by another gentleman. I expressed my satisfaction at this arrange- 
ment, and was conducted by a maid-servant up many pairs of 
stairs to a garret, in which were two small beds, in one of which 
she gave me to understand another gentleman slept; he had, 
however, not yet retired to rest ; I asked who he was, but the 
maid-servant could give me no information about him, save that 
he was a highly respectable gentleman, and a friend of her master’s. 
Presently, bidding me good-night, she left me with a candle ; and 
I, having undressed myself and extinguished the light, went to bed. 
Notwithstanding the noises which sounded from every part of the 
house, I was not slow in falling asleep, being thoroughly tired. I 
know not how long I might have been in bed, perhaps two hours, 
when I was partially awakened by a light shining upon my face, 
whereupon, unclosing my eyes, I perceived the figure of a man, 
with a candle in one hand, staring at my face, whilst with the other 
hand, he held back the curtain of the bed. As I have said before, 
I was only partially awakened, my power of conception was con- 
sequently very confused; it appeared to me, however, that the 
man was dressed in a green coat ; that he had curly brown or black 
hair, and that there was something peculiar in his look. Just as I 
was beginning to recollect myself, the curtain dropped, and I heard, 
or thought I heard, a voice say : “ Don’t know the cove”. Then 
there was a rustling like a person undressing, whereupon being 
satisfied that it was my fellow-lodger, I dropped asleep, but was 
awakened again by a kind of heavy plunge upon the other bed, 
which caused it to rock and creak, when I observed that the light 
had been extinguished, probably blown out, if I might judge from 
a rather disagreeable smell of burnt wick which remained in the 
room, and which kept me awake till I heard my companion 
breathing hard, when, turning on the other side, I was again once 
more speedily in the arms of slumber. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


It had been my intention to be up and doing early on the follow- 
ing morning, but my slumbers proved so profound, that I did not 
wake until about eight ; on arising, I again found myself the sole 
occupant of the apartment, my more alert companion having 
probably risen at a much earlier hour. Having dressed myself, I 
descended, and going to the stable, found my horse under the 
hands of my friend the ostler, who was carefully rubbing him 
down. “There a’n’t a better horse in the fair,” said he to me, 
“ and as you are one of us, and appear to be all right. I’ll give you 
a piece of advice — don’t take less than a hundred and fifty for 
him ; if you mind your hits, you may get it, for I have known two 
hundred given in this fair for one no better, if so good.” “Well,” 
said I, “ thank you for your advice, which I will take, and if 
successful, will give you ‘ summut ’ handsome.” “Thank you,” 
said the ostler; “and now let me ask whether you are up to all 
the ways of this here place?” “ I have never been here before,” 
said I, “but I have a pair of tolerably sharp eyes in my head.” 
“ That I see you have,” said the ostler, “ but many a body, with 
as sharp a pair of eyes as yourn, has lost his horse in this fair, for 
want of having been here before, therefore,” said he, “ I’ll give 
you a caution or two.” Thereupon the ostler proceeded to give 
me at least half a dozen cautions, only two of which I shall relate 
to the reader : the first, not to stop to listen to what any chance 
customer might have to say ; and the last — the one on which he 
appeared to lay most stress — by no manner of means to permit a 
Yorkshireman to get up into the saddle, “ for,” said he, “ if you 
do, it is three to one that he rides off with the horse ; he can’t 
help it ; trust a cat amongst cream, but never trust a Yorkshire- 
man on the saddle of a good horse ; by-the-bye,” he continued, 
“ that saddle of yours is not a particularly good one, no more is 
the bridle. A shabby saddle and bridle have more than once 
spoiled the sale of a good horse. I tell you what, as you seem a 
decent kind of a young chap. I’ll lend you a saddle and bridle of 
my master’s, almost bran new ; he won’t object, I know, as you 
^re a friend of his, only you must not forget your promise to 

(214) 



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1825.] 


HORN CASTLE FAIR. 


215 


come down with ‘summut handsome’ after you have sold the 
animal.” 

After a slight breakfast I mounted the horse, which, decked 
out in his borrowed finery, really looked better by a large sum of 
money than on any former occasion. Making my way out of the 
yard of the inn, I was instantly in the principal street of the town, 
up and down which an immense number of horses were being ex- 
hibited, some led, and others with riders. “ A wonderful small 
quantity of good horses in the fair this time ! ” I heard a stout, 
jockey-looking individual say, who was staring up the street with 
his side towards me. “ Halloo, young fellow ! ” said he, a few 
moments after I had passed, whose horse is that ? Stop ! I 
want to look at him ! ” Though confident that he was addressing 
himself to me, I took no notice, remembering the advice of the 
ostler, and proceeded up the street. My horse possessed a good 
walking step ; but walking, as the reader knows, was not his best 
pace, which was the long trot, at which I could not well exercise 
him in the street, on account of the crowd of men and animals ; 
however, as he walked along, I could easily perceive that he 
attracted no slight attention amongst those, who by their jockey 
dress and general appearance, I imagined to be connoisseurs ; I 
heard various calls to stop, to none of which I paid the slightest 
attention. In a few minutes I found myself out of the town, 
when, turning round for the purpose of returning, I found I had 
been followed by several of the connoisseur-looking individuals, 
whom I had observed in the fair. “Now would be the time for 
a display,” thought I ; and looking around me I observed two 
five- barred gates, one on each side of the road, and fronting each 
other. Turning my horse’s head to one, I pressed my heels to 
his sides, loosened the reins, and gave an encouraging cry, where- 
upon the animal cleared the gate in a twinkling. Before he had 
advanced ten yards in the field to which the gate opened, I had 
turned him round, and again giving him cry and rein, I caused 
him to leap back again into the road, and still allowing him head, 

I made him leap the other gate ; and forthwith turning him round, 
I caused him to leap once more into the road, where he stood 
proudly tossing his head, as much as to say, “What more?” 
“ A fine horse ! a capital horse ! ” said several of the connoisseurs. 
“What do you ask for him?” “Too much for any of you to 
pay,” said I. “A horse like this is intended for other kind of 
customers than any of you.” “ How do you know that,” said one ; 
the very same person whom I had heard complaining in the street 
of the paucity of good horses in the fair. “ Come, let us know 


2i6 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


what you ask for him ? ” “A hundred and fifty pounds,” said I ; 

neither more nor less.” “ Do you call that a great price ? ” said 
the man. “ Why, I thought you would have asked double that 
amount ! You do yourself injustice, young man/’ “ Perhaps I 
do,” said I, “ but that’s my affair ; I do not choose to take more.” 
“I wish you would let me get into the saddle,” said the man;. 
“ the horse knows you, and therefore shows to more advantage ; 
but I should like to see how he would move under me, who am a 
stranger. Will you let me get into the saddle, young man ? ” 
“No,” said I; “I will not let you get into the saddle.” “Why 
not ? ” said the man. “ Lest you should be a Yorkshireman,” said 
I, “and should run away with the horse.” “Yorkshire?” said 
the man ; “I am from Suffolk, silly Suffolk, so you need not be 
afraid of my running away with the horse.” “ Oh ! if that’s the 
case,” said I, “ I should be afraid that the horse would run away 
with you ; so I will by no means let you mount.” “ Will you let 
me look in his mouth?” said the man. “If you please,” said 
I; “but I tell you, he’s apt to bite.” “He can scarcely be a 
worse bite than his master,” said the man, looking into the horse’s 
mouth ; “ he’s four off. I say, young man, will you warrant this 
horse ? ” “ No,” said I ; “ I never warrant horses ; the horses that 

I ride can always warrant themselves.” “ I wish you would let me 
speak a word to you,” said he. “Just come aside. It’s a nice 
horse,” said he in a half-whisper, after I had ridden a few paces 
aside with him. “It’s a nice horse,” said he, placing his hand 
upon the pommel of the saddle, and looking up in my face, “ and 
I think I can find you a customer. If you would take a hundred, 
I think my lord would purchase it, for he has sent me about the 
fair to -look him up a horse, by which he could hope to make an 
honest penny.” “Well,” said I, “and could he not make an 
honest penny, and yet give me the price I ask?” “Why,” said 
the go-between, “ a hundred and fifty pounds is as much as the 

animal is worth, or nearly so; and my lord, do you see ” 

“I see no reason at all,” said I, “ why I should sell the animal 

for less than he is worth, in order that his lordship may be bene- 
fited by him ; so that if his lordship wants to make an honest 
penny, he must find some person who would consider the dis- 
advantage of selling him a horse for less than it is worth as 

counterbalanced by the honour of dealing with a lord, which I 
should never do ; but I can’t be wasting my time here. I am 

going back to the , where, if you, or any person, are desirous 

of purchasing the horse, you must come within the next half-hour, 
or I shall probably not feel disposed to sell him at all.” “ Another 


HORNCASTLE FAIR. 


217 


1825.] 


word, young man,” said the jockey, but without staying to hear 
what he had to say, I put the horse to his best trot, and re-entering 
the town, and threading my way as well as I could through the 
press, I returned to the yard of the inn, where, dismounting, I 
stood still, holding the horse by the bridle. 

I had been standing in this manner about five minutes, when 
I saw the jockey enter the yard, accompanied by another indi- 
vidual. They advanced directly towards me. “ Here is my lord 
come to look at the horse, young man,” said the jockey. My 
lord, as the jockey called him, was a tall figure, of about five-and- 
thirty. He had on his head a hat somewhat rusty, and on his 
back a surtout of blue rather the worse for wear. His forehead, 
if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were brown, with 
a rat-like glare in them ; the nose was rather long, and the mouth 
very wide ; the cheek-bones high, and the cheeks, as to hue and 
consistency, exhibiting very much the appearance of a withered 
red apple ; there was a gaunt expression of hunger in the whole 
countenance. He had scarcely glanced at the horse ; when draw- 
ing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips very much after the manner 
of a baboon when he sees a piece of sugar held out towards him. “ Is 
this horse yours ? ” said he, suddenly turning towards me, with a 
kind of smirk. “ It’s my horse,” said I ; “ are you the person 
who wishes to make an honest penny by it?” “How!” said 
he, drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and 
speaking witn a very haughty tone; “ what do you mean ? ” We 
looked at each other full in the face ; after a few moments, the 
muscles of the mouth of him of the hungry look began to move 
violently, the face was puckered into innumerable wrinkles, and the 
eyes became half-closed. “ Well,” said I, “ have you ever seen 
me before? I suppose you are asking yourself that question.” 
“ Excuse me, sir,” said he, dropping his lofty look, and speaking 
in a very subdued and civil tone, “ I have never had the honour 

of seeing you before, that is ” said he, slightly glancing at me 

again, and again moving the muscles of his mouth; “no, I have 
never seen you before,” he added, making me a bow, “ I have 
never had that pleasure. My business with you, at present, is to 
inquire the lowest price you are willing to take for this horse. My 
agent here informs me that you ask one hundred and fifty pounds, 
which I cannot think of giving. The horse is a showy horse, but 
look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and there in his near fore leg 
I observe something which looks very like a splint — yes, upon my 
credit,” said he, touching the animal, “ he has a splint, or something 
which will end in one. A hundred and fifty pounds, sir ! what 


2I8 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


could have induced you ever to ask anything like that for this ani- 
mal ? I protest that, in my time, I have frequently bought a better 

for Who are you, sir ? I am in treaty for this horse,” said he 

to a man who had come up whilst he was talking, and was now 
looking into the horse’s mouth. “ Who am I ? ” said the man, 
still looking into the horse’s mouth ; “ who am I ? his lordship 
asks me. Ah, I see, close on five,” said he, releasing the horse’s 
jaws, and looking at me. This new comer was a thin, wiry-made 
individual, with wiry curling brown hair ; his face was dark, and 
wore an arch and somewhat roguish expression ; upon one of his 
eyes was a kind of speck or beam ; he might be about forty, wore 
a green jockey coat, and held in his hand a black riding-whip, 
with a knob of silver wire. As I gazed upon his countenance, it 
brought powerfully to my mind the face which, by the light of the 
candle, I had seen staring over me on the preceding night, when 
lying in bed and half-asleep. Close beside him, and seemingly 
in his company, stood an exceedingly tall figure, that of a youth, 
seemingly about one-and-twenty, dressed in a handsome riding- 
dress, and wearing on his head a singular hat, green in colour, 
and with a very high peak. “ What do you ask for this horse ? ” 
said he of the green coat, winking at me with the eye which had 
a beam in it, whilst the other shone and sparkled like Mrs. Colonel 

W ’s Golconda diamond. “Who are you, sir, I demand 

once more?” said he of the hungry look. “Who am I? why, 
who should I be but Jack Dale, who buys horses for himself and 
other folk ; I want one at present for this short young gentleman,” 
said he, motioning with his finger to the gigantic youth. “ Well, 
sir,” said the other, “and what business have you to interfere 
between me and any purchase I may be disposed to make?” 
“ Well, then,” said the other, “ be quick and purchase the horse, 
or, perhaps, I may.” “Do you think I am to be dictated to by 
a fellow of your description?” said his lordship; “begone, or 

” “ What do you ask for this horse ? ” said the other to me, 

very coolly. “ A hundred and fifty,” said I. “ I shouldn’t mind 
giving it to you,” said he. “ You will do no such thing,” said 
his lordship, speaking so fast that he almost stuttered. “Sir,” 
said he to me, “ I must give you what you ask ; Symmonds, 
take possession of the animal for me,” said he to the other jockey 
who attended him. “ You will please to do no such thing without 
my consent,” said I; “I have not sold him.” “I have this 
moment told you that I will give you the price you demand,” said 
his lordship; “is not that sufficient?” “No,” said I, “there is 
a proper manner of doing everything ; had you come forward in 


1825.] 


HORNCASTLE FAIR. 


219 


a manly and gentlemanly manner to purchase the horse, I should 
have been happy to sell him to you, but after all the fault you 
have found with him, I would not sell him to you at any price, 
so send, your friend to find up another.” “You behave in this 
manner, I suppose,” said his lordship, “ because this fellow has 
expressed a willingness to come to your terms. I would advise 
you to be cautious how you trust the animal in his hands ; I think 

I have seen him before and could tell you ” “What can 

you tell of me ? ” said the other, going up to him ; “ except that 
I have been a poor dicky-boy, and that now I am a dealer in 
horses, and that my father was lagged ; that’s all you could tell 
of me, and that I don’t mind telling myself : but there are two 
things they can’t say of me, they can’t say that I am either a 
coward or a screw either, except so far as one who gets his bread 
by horses may be expected to be ; and they can’t say of me that 
I ever ate up an ice which a young woman was waiting for, or 
that I ever backed out of a fight. Horse ! ” said he, motioning 
with his finger tauntingly to the other, “ what do you want with 
a horse, except to take the bread out of the mouth of a poor man 
— to-morrow is not the battle of Waterloo, so that you don’t want 
to back out of danger, by pretending to have hurt yourself by 
falling from the creature’s back, my lord of the white feather ; 
come, none of your fierce looks, I am not afraid of you.” In 
fact, the other had assumed an expression of the deadliest malice, 
his teeth were clenched, his lips quivered, and were quite pale ; 
the rat-like eyes sparkled, and he made a half-spring, a la rat, 
towards his adversary, who only laughed. Restraining himself, 
however, he suddenly turned to his understrapper, saying : “ Sym- 
monds, will you see me thus insulted ? go and trounce this 
scoundrel ; you can, I know.” “ Symmonds trounce me ! ” said 
the other, going up to the person addressed, and drawing his hand 
contemptuously over his face; “why, I beat Symmonds in this 
very yard in one round three years ago; didn’t I, Symmonds?” 
said he to the understrapper, who held down his head, muttering, 
in a surly tone, “ I didn’t come here to fight; let every one take 
his own part.” “That’s right, Symmonds,” said the other, 
“ especially every one from whom there is nothing to be got. I 
would give you half a crown for all the trouble you have had, 
provided I were not afraid that my Lord Plume there would get 
it from you as soon as you leave the yard together. Come, take 
yourselves both off ; there’s nothing to be made here.” Indeed, 
his lordship seemed to be of the same opinion, for after a further 
glance at the horse, a contemptuous look at me, and a scowl 


220 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


the jockey, he turned on his heel, muttering something which 
sounded like fellows, and stalked out of the yard, followed by 
Symmonds. 

“ And now, young man," said the jockey, or whatever he was, 
turning to me with an arch leer, “ I suppose I may consider 
myself as the purchaser of this here animal, for the use and behoof 
of this young gentleman ? " making a sign with his head towards 
the tall young man by his side. “By no means,” said I ; “ I am 
utterly unacquainted with either of you, and before parting with 
the horse, I must be satisfied as to the respectablity of the pur- 
chaser.” “Oh! as to that matter,” said he, “I have plenty of 
vouchers for my respectability about me,” and thrusting his 
hand into his bosom below his waistcoat, he drew out a large 
bundle of notes. “ These are the kind of things,” said he, “ which 
vouch best for a man’s"^ respectability.” “ Not always,” said I ; 
“ indeed, sometimes these kind of things need vouchers for them- 
selves.” The man looked at me with a peculiar look. “ Do you 
mean to say that these notes are not sufficient notes?” said he, 
“ because if you do, I shall take the liberty of thinking that you 
are not over civil, and when I thinks a person is not over and 
above civil I sometimes takes off my coat, and when my coat is off 

” “ You sometimes knock people down,” I added ; “well, 

whether you knock me down or not, I beg leave to tell you that 
I am a stranger in this fair, and that I shall part with the horse 
to nobody who has no better guarantee for his respectability than 
a roll of bank-notes, which may be good or not for what I know, 
who am not a judge of such things.” “ Oh I if you are a stranger 
here,” said the man, “as I believe you are, never having seen 
you here before except last night, when I think I saw you above 
stairs by the glimmer of a candle — I say, if you are a stranger, 
you are quite right to be cautious ; queer things being done in 
this fair, as nobody knows better than myself,” he added with a 
leer ; “ but I suppose if the landlord of the house vouches for 
me and my notes, you will have no objection to part with the 
horse to me?” “None whatever,” said I, “and in the mean- 
time the horse can return to the stable.” 

Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler. The 
landlord of the house on being questioned by me as to the char- 
acter and condition of my new acquaintance, informed me that 
he was a respectable horsedealer, and an intimate friend of his, 
whereupon the purchase was soon brought to a satisfactory con- 
clusion, 











CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


It v/as evening, and myself and the two acquaintances I had 
made in the fair — namely, the jockey and the tall foreigner — sat 
in a large upstairs room, which looked into a court; we had 
dined with several people connected with the fair at a long table 
d'hote ; they had now departed, and we sat at a small side-table with 
wine and a candle before us ; both my companions had pipes in 
their mouths — the jockey a common pipe, and the foreigner one, 
the syphon of which, made of some kind of wood, was at least six 
feet long, and the bowl of which, made of a white kind of sub- 
stance like porcelain, and capable of holding nearly an ounce 
of tobacco, rested on the ground. The jockey frequently emptied 
and replenished his glass ; the foreigner sometimes raised his to 
his lips, for no other purpose seemingly than to moisten them, as 
he never drained his glass. As for myself, though I did not 
smoke, I had a glass before me, from which I sometimes took a 
sip. The room, notwithstanding the window was flung open, was 
in general so filled with smoke, chiefly that which was drawn 
from the huge bowl of the foreigner, that my companions and I 
were frequently concealed from each other’s eyes. The conversa- 
tion, which related entirely to the events of the fair, was carried 
on by the jockey and myself, the foreigner, who appeared to 
understand the greater part of what we said, occasionally putting 
in a few observations in broken English. At length the jockey, 
after the other had made some ineffectual attempts to express 
something intelligibly which he wished to say, observed : “ Isn’t 
it a pity that so fine a fellow as meinheer, and so clever a fellow 
too, as I believe him to be, is not a little better master of 
our language?” 

“ Is the gentleman a German ? ” said I ; “ if so, I can interpret 
for him anything he wishes to say.” 

“ The deuce you can,” said the jockey, taking his pipe out of 
his mouth, and staring at me through the smoke. 

“ Ha ! you speak German,” vociferated the foreigner in that 

language. “ By Isten, I am glad of it ! I wanted to say ” 

And here he said in German what he wished to say, and which was 
of no great importance, and which I translated into English. 

(221) 


222 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“Well, if you don’t put me out,” said the jockey; “what 
language is that — Dutch?” 

“ High Dutch,” said I. 

“ High Dutch, and you speak High Dutch, — why I had 
booked you for as great an ignoramus as myself, who can’t write 
— no, nor distinguish in a book a great A from a bull’s foot.” 

“A person may be a very clever man,” said I — “no, not a 
clever man, for clever signifies clerkly, and a clever man one who 
is able to read and write, and entitled to the benefit of his clergy 
or clerkship ; but a person may be a very acute person without being 
able to read or write. I never saw a more acute countenance than 
your own.” 

“No soft soap,” said the jockey, “ for I never uses any. How- 
ever, thank you for your information ; I have hitherto thought myself 
a ’nition clever fellow, but from henceforth shall consider myself 
just the contrary, and only — what’s the word ? — confounded ’cute.” 

“Just so,” said I. 

“Well,” said the jockey, “as you say you can speak High 
Dutch, I should like to hear you and master six foot six fire away 
at each other.” 

“ I cannot speak German,” said I, “ but I can understand 
tolerably well what others say in it.” 

“ Come, no backing out,’’ said the jockey ; “let’s hear you fire 
away for the glory of Old England.” 

“Then you are a German?” said I in German to the foreigner. 

“That will do,” said the jockey, “ keep it up.” 

“ A German ! ” said the tall foreigner. “ No, I thank God 
that I do not belong to the stupid, sluggish Germanic race, but to 
a braver, taller and handsomer people ; ” here taking the pipe out 
of his mouth, he stood up proudly erect, so that his head nearly 
touched the ceiling of the room, then reseating himself, and again 
putting the syphon to his lips, he added, “ I am a Magyar ”. 

“ What is that? ” said I. 

The foreigner looked at me for a moment somewhat contemp- 
tuously, through the smoke, then said, in a voice of thunder, “ A 
Hungarian ! ” 

“ What a voice the chap has when he pleases ! ” interposed the 
jockey ; “ what is he saying ? ” 

“ Merely that he is a Hungarian,” said I ; but I added, “the con- 
versation of this gentleman and myself in a language which you can’t 
understand must be very tedious to you, we had better give it up.” 

“ Keep on with it,” said the jockey; “I shall go on listening 
very contentedly till I fall asleep, no bad thing to do at most times.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


“ Then you are a countryman of Tekeli, and of the queen who 
made the celebrated water,” said I, speaking to the Hungarian in 
German, which I was able to do tolerably well owing to my having 
translated the publisher’s philosophy into that language, always 
provided I did not attempt to say much at a time. 

Hungarian, Ah ! you have heard of Tekeli, and of L’eau de 
la Reine d’Hongrie. How is that ? 

Myself. I have seen a play acted, founded on the exploits of 
Tekeli, and have read Pigault Le Brun’s beautiful romance, en- 
titled the Barons of Felsheim in which he is mentioned. As 
for the water, I have heard a lady, the wife of a master of mine, 
speak of it. 

Hungarian. Was she handsome ? 

Myself. Very. 

Hungarian. Did she possess the water ? 

Myself I should say not; for I have heard her express a 
great curiosity about it. 

Hungarian. Was she growing old? 

Myself. Of course not ; but why do you put all these ques- 
tions ? 

Hungarian. Because the water is said to make people hand- 
some, and above all, to restore to the aged the beauty of their 
youth. Well ! Tekeli was my countryman, and I have the honour 
of having some of the blood of the Tekelis in my veins, but with 
respect to the queen, pardon me if I tell you that she was not an 
Hungarian ; she was a Pole — Ersebet by name, daughter of 
Wladislaus Locticus King of Poland ; she was the fourth spouse 
of Caroly the Second, King of the Magyar country, who married 
her in 1320. She was a great woman and celebrated politician, 
though at present chiefly known by her water. 

Myself How came she to invent it ? 

Hungarian. If her own account may be believed, she did not 
invent it. After her death, as I have read in Florentius of Buda, 
there was found a statement of the manner in which she came by 
it, written in her own hand, on a fly-leaf of her breviary, to the 


224 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


following effect : Being afflicted with a grievous disorder at the 
age of seventy-two, she received the medicine which was called 
her water, from an old hermit whom she never saw before or 
afterwards ; it not only cured her, but restored to her all her 
former beauty, so that the King of Poland fell in love with her, 
and made her an offer of marriage, which she refused for the 
glory of God, from whose holy angel she believed she had received 
the water. The receipt for making it and directions for using it, 
were also found on the fly-leaf. The principal component parts 
were burnt wine and rosemary, passed through an alembic ; a 
drachm of it was to be taken once a week, etelbenn vagy ital- 
bann^'" in the food or the drink, early in the morning, and the 
cheeks were to be moistened with it every day. The effects, 
according to the statement, were wonderful — and perhaps they 
were upon the queen ; but whether the water has been equally 
efficacious on other people, is a point which I cannot determine. 
I should wish to see some old woman who has been restored to 
youthful beauty by the use of L’eau de la Reine d’Hongrie. 

Myself. Perhaps, if you did, the old gentlewoman would 
hardly be so ingenuous as the queen. But who are the Hunga- 
rians — descendants of Attila and his people ? 

The Hungarian shook his head, and gave me to understand 
that he did not believe that his nation were the descendants of 
Attila and his people, though he acknowledged that they were 
probably of the same race. Attila and his armies, he said, came 
and disappeared in a very mysterious manner, and that nothing 
could be said with positiveness about them ; that the people now 
known as Magyars first made their appearance in Muscovy in the 
year 884, under the leadership of Aim us, called so from alom, 
which, in the Hungarian language, signifies a dream ; his mother, 
before his birth, having dreamt that the child with which she was 
enceinte would be the father of a long succession of kings, which, 
in fact, was the case ; that after beating the Russians he entered 
Hungary, and coming to a place called Ungvar, from which many 
people believed that modern Hungary derived its name, he 
captured it, and held in it a grand festival, which lasted four days, 
at the end of which time he resigned the leadership of the Magyars 
to his son Arpad. This Arpad and his Magyars utterly subdued 
Pannonia — that is, Hungary and Transylvania — wresting the 
government of it from the Sclavonian tribes who inhabited it, and 
settling down amongst them as conquerors ! After giving me this 
information, the Hungarian exclaimed with much animation : 
“ A goodly country that which they had entered on, consisting of 


1825.] 


THE HUNGARIAN. 


225 


a plain surrounded by mountains, some of which intersect it here 
and there, with noble rapid rivers, the grandest of which is the 
mighty Dunau ; a country with tiny volcanoes, casting up puffs 
of smoke and steam, and from which hot springs arise, good for 
the sick ; with many fountains, some of which are so pleasant to 
the taste as to be preferred to wine ; with a generous soil which, 
warmed by a beautiful sun, is able to produce corn, grapes, and 
even the Indian weed ; in fact, one of the finest countries in the 
world, which even a Spaniard would pronounce to be nearly equal 
to Spain. Here they rested, meditating, however, fresh con- 
quests. Oh, the Magyars soon showed themselves a mighty 
people. Besides Hungary and Transylvania, they subdued Bul- 
garia and Bosnia, and the land of Tot, now called Sclavonia. 
The generals of Zoltan, the son of Arpad, led troops of horsemen 
to the banks of the Rhine. One of them, at the head of a host, 
besieged Constantinople. It was then that Botond engaged in 
combat with a Greek of gigantic stature, who came out of the 
city and challenged the two best men in the Magyar army. ‘ I 
am the feeblest of the Magyars,’ said Botond, ‘but I will kill 
thee ; ’ and he performed his word, having previously given a 
proof of the feebleness of his arm by striking his battle-axe through 
the brazen gate, making a hole so big that a child of five years 
old could walk through it.” 

Myself. Of what religion were the old Hungarians ? 

Hungarian. They had some idea of a Supreme Being, whom 
they called Isten, which word is still used by the Magyars for 
God ; but their chief devotion was directed to sorcerers and 
soothsayers, something like the Schamans of the Siberian steppes. 
They were converted to Christianity chiefly through the instru- 
mentality of Istvan or Stephen, called after his death St. Istvan, 
who ascended the throne in the year one thousand. He was 
born in heathenesse, and his original name was Vojk : he was the 
first kiraly, or king, of the Magyars. Their former leaders had 
been called fejedelmek., or dukes. The Magyar language has 
properly no term either for king or house. Kiraly \% a word 
derived from the Sclaves ; haz.^ or house, from the Germans, who 
first taught them to build houses, their original dwellings having 
been tilted waggons. 

Myself. Many thanks for your account of the great men of 
your country. 

Hungarian. The great men of my country ! I have only told 

you of the Well, I acknowledge that Almus and Arpad 

were great men, but Hungary has produced many greater ; I will 

15 


26 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


not trouble you by recapitulating all, but there is one name I 
cannot forbear mentioning — but you have heard of it — even at 
Horncastle the name of Hiinyadi must be familiar. 

Myself. It may be so, though I rather doubt it ; but, however 
that may be, I confess my ignorance. I have never, until this 
moment, heard the name of Hunyadi. 

Hungarian. Not of Hunyadi Janos, not of Hunyadi John — 
for the genius of our language compels us to put a man’s Christian 
name after his other ; perhaps you have heard of the name of 
Corvinus ? 

Myself. Yes, I have heard of the name of Corvinus. 

Hungarian. By my God, I am glad of it ; I thought our 
hammer of destruction, our thunderbolt, whom the Greeks called 
Achilles, must be known to the people of Horncastle. Well, 
Hunyadi and Corvinus are the same. 

Myself. Corvinus means the man of the crow, or raven. I 
suppose that your John, when a boy, climbed up to a crow or a 
raven’s nest, and stole the young ; a bold feat, well befitting a 
young hero. 

Hungarian. By Isten, you are an acute guesser ; a robbery 
there was, but it was not Hunyadi who robbed the raven, but the 
raven who robbed Hunyadi. 

Myself. How was that ? 

Hungarian. In this manner : Hunyadi, according to tradition, 
was the son of King Sigmond, by a peasant’s daughter. The king 
saw and fell in love with her, whilst marching against the vaivode 
of Wallachia. He had some difficulty in persuading her to con- 
sent to his wishes, and she only yielded at last on the king making 
her a solemn promise that, in the event of her becoming with child 
by him, he would handsomely provide for her and the infant. 
The king proceeded on his expedition, and on his returning in 
triumph from Wallachia, he again saw the girl, who informed him 
that she was enceinte by him ; the king was delighted with the 
intelligence, gave the girl money, and at the same time a ring, 
requesting her, if she brought forth a son, to bring the ring to 
Buda with the child, and present it to him. When her time was 
up, the peasant’s daughter brought forth a fair son, who was 
baptised by the name of John. After some time the young 
woman communicated the whole affair to her elder brother, whose 
name was Caspar, and begged him to convey her and the child 
to the king at Buda. The brother consented, and both set out, 
taking the child with them. On their way, the woman, wanting 
to wash her clothes, laid the child down, giving it the king’s ring 


1825-] 


HUNYADI JANOS. 


227 


to play with. A raven, who saw the glittering ring, came flying, 
and plucking it out of the child’s hand, carried it up into a tree ; 
the child suddenly began to cry, and the mother, hearing it, left 
her washing, and running to the child, forthwith missed the ring, 
but hearing the raven croak in the tree, she lifted up her eyes, 
and saw it with the ring in its beak. The woman, in great terror, 
called her brother, and told him what had happened, adding, that 
she durst not approach the king if the raven took away the ring. 
Caspar, seizing his cross-bow and quiver, ran to the tree, where 
the raven was yet with the ring, and discharged an arrow at it, 
but, being in a great hurry, he missed it ; with his second shot he 
was more lucky, for he hit the raven in the breast, which, together 
with the ring, fell to the ground. Taking up the ring, they went 
on their way, and shortly arrived at Buda. One day, as the king 
was walking after dinner in his outer hall, the woman appeared 
before him with the child, and, showing him the ring, said : 
“ Mighty lord ! behold this token ! and take pity upon me and 
your own son King Sigmond took the child and kissed it, and, 
after a pause said to the mother : “ You have done right in bringing 
me the boy ; I will take care of you, and make him a nobleman 
The king was as good as his word ; he provided for the mother, 
caused the boy to be instructed in knightly exercises, and made 
him a present of the town of Hunyad, in Transylvania, on which 
account he was afterwards called Hunyadi, and gave him, as an 
armorial sign, a raven bearing a ring in his beak. 

Such, oh young man of Horncastle ! is the popular account of 
the birth of the great captain of Hungary, as related by Florentius 
of Buda. There are other accounts of his birth, which is, indeed, 
involved in much mystery, and of the reason of his being called 
Corvinus, but as this is the most pleasing, and is, upon the whole, 
founded on quite as good evidence as the others, I have selected 
it for recitation. 

Myself. I heartily thank you ; but you must tell me something 
more of Hunyadi. You call him your great captain ; what did 
he do?, 

Hungarian. Do ! what no other man of his day could have 
done. He broke the power of the Turk when he was coming to 
overwhelm Europe. From the blows inflicted by Hunyadi, the 
Turk never thoroughly recovered ; he has been frequently worsted 
in latter times, but none but Hunyadi could have routed the armies 
of Amurath and Mahomed the Second. 

Myself. How was it that he had an opportunity of displaying 
his military genius ? 


228 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


Hungarian. I can hardly tell you, but his valour soon made 
him famous ; King Albert made him Ban of Szorenyi. He 
became eventually waivode of Transylvania, and governor of 
Hungary. His first grand action was the defeat of Bashaw 
Isack ; and though himself surprised and routed at St. Imre, he 
speedily regained his prestige by defeating the Turks, with 
enormous slaughter, killing their leader, Mezerbeg; and subse- 
quently, at the battle of the Iron Gates, he destroyed ninety 
thousand Turks, sent by Amurath to avenge the late disgrace. 
It was then that the Greeks called him Achilles. 

Myself. He was not always successful. 

Hungarian. Who could be always successful against the early 
Turk? He was defeated in the battle in which King Vladislaus 
lost his life, but his victories outnumbered his defeats three-fold. 
His grandest victory — perhaps the grandest ever achieved by 
man — was over the terrible Mahomed the Second ; who, after 
the taking of Constantinople in 1453, said : “One God in Heaven 
— one king on earth ” ; and marched to besieger Belgrade at the 
head of one hundred and fifty thousand men ; swearing by the 
beard of the prophet, “ That he would sup within it ere two 
months were elapsed He brought with him dogs, to eat the 
bodies of the Christians whom he should take or slay ; so says 
Florentius ; hear what he also says : The Turk sat down before 
the town towards the end of June, 1454, covering the Dunau and 
Szava with ships : and on the 4th of July he began to cannonade 
Belgrade with cannons twenty-five feet long, whose roar jcould be 
heard at Szeged, a distance of twenty-four leagues, at which place 
Hunyadi had assembled his forces. Hunyadi had been able to 
raise only fifteen thousand of well-armed and disciplined men, 
though he had with him vast bands of people, who called them- 
selves Soldiers of the Cross, but who consisted of inexperienced 
lads from school, peasants and hermits, armed with swords, 
slings and clubs. Hunyadi, undismayed by the great disparity 
between his forces and those of the Turk, advanced to relieve 
Belgrade, and encamped at Szalankemen with his army. There 
he saw at once that his first step must be to attack the flotilla ; 
he therefore privately informed Szilagy, his wife’s brother, who at 
that time defended Belgrade, that it was his intention to attack 
the ships of the Turks on the 14th day of July in front, and re- 
quested his co-operation in the rear. On the 14th came on the 
commencement of the great battle of Belgrade, between Hunyadi 
and the Turk. Many days it lasted. 

Myself Describe it. 


FLORENTIUS OF BUDA. 


229 


1825.] 


Hungarian, I cannot. One has described it well — Florentius 
of Buda. I can only repeat a few of his words : “ On the 
appointed day, Hunyadi, with two hundred vessels, attacked the 
Turkish flotilla in front, whilst Szilagy, with forty vessels, filled 
with the men of Belgrade, assailed it in the rear ; striving for the 
same object, they sunk many of the Turkish vessels, captured 
seventy-four, burnt many, and utterly annihilated the whole fleet. 
After this victory, Hunyadi, with his army entered Belgrade, to 
the great joy of the Magyars. But though the force of Mahomed 
upon the water was destroyed, that upon the land remained entire ; 
and with this, during six days and nights, he attacked the city 
without intermission, destroying its walls in many parts. His last 
and most desperate assault was made on the 21st day of July. 
Twice did the Turks gain possession of the outer town, and twice 
was it retaken with indescribable slaughter. The next day the 
combat raged without ceasing till midday, when the Turks were 
again beaten out of the town, and pursued by the Magyars to their 
camp. There the combat was renewed, both sides displaying the 
greatest obstinacy until Mahomed received a great wound over his 
left eye. The Turks then, turning their faces, fled, leaving be- 
hind them three hundred cannon in the hands of the Christians, 
and more than twenty-four thousand slain on the field of battle.” 

Myself. After that battle, I suppose Hunyadi enjoyed his 
triumphs in peace ? 

Hungarian. In the deepest, for he shortly died. His great 
soul quitted his body, which was exhausted by almost superhuman 
exertions, on the nth of August, 1456. Shortly before he died, 
according to Florentius, a comet appeared, sent, as it would 
seem, to announce his coming end. The whole Christian world 
mourned his loss. The Pope ordered the cardinals to perform 
a funeral ceremony at Rome in his honour. His great enemy 
himself grieved for him, and pronounced his finest eulogium. 
When Mahomed the Second heard of his death, he struck his 
head for some time against the ground without speaking. 
Suddenly he broke silence with these words : Notwithstanding 

he w'as my enemy, yet do I bewail his loss ; since the sun has 
shone in heaven, no Prince had ever yet such a man ”. 

Myself. What was the name of his Prince ? 

Hungarian. Laszlo the Fifth ; who, though under infinite 
obligations to Hunyadi, was anything but grateful to him ; for he 
once consented to a plan which was laid to assassinate him, 
contrived by his mortal enemy Ulrik, Count of Cilejia ; and after 
Hunyadi’s death, caused his eldest son Hunyadi Laszlo, to be 


230 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825* 


executed on a false accusation, and imprisoned his younger son, 
Matyas, who, on the death of Laszlo, was elected by the Magyars 
to be their king, on the 24th of January, 1458. 

Myself. Was this Matyas a good king ? 

Hungarian. Was Matyas Corvinus a good king? O young 
man of Horncastle ! he was the best and greatest that Hungary 
ever possessed, and, after his father, the most renowned warrior 
— some of our best laws were framed by him. It was he who 
organised the Hussar force, and it was he who took Vienna. 
Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at 
Vienna ? 

Myself. I really cannot say ; but with respect to the Hussar 
force, is it of Hungarian origin ? 

Hungarian. Its name shows its origin. Huz, in Hungarian, 
is twenty and the Hussar force is so called because it is formed 
of twentieths. A law was issued by which it was ordered that 
every Hungarian nobleman, out of every twenty dependants, should 
produce a well-equipped horseman, and with him proceed to the 
field of battle. 

Myself. Why did Matyas capture Vienna? 

Hungarian. Because the Emperor Frederick took part against 
him with the King of Poland, who claimed the kingdom of 
Hungary for his son, and had also assisted the Turk. He 
captured it in the year 1487, but did not survive his triumph 
long, expiring there in the year 1490. He was so veracious a man, 
that it was said of him, after his death, “ Truth died with Matyas ”. 
It might be added that the glory of Hungary departed with him. 
I wish to say nothing more connected with Hungarian history. 

Myself. Another word. Did Matyas leave a son. 

Hungarian. A natural son, Hunyadi John, called so after the 
great man. He would have been universally acknowledged as 
King of Hungary but for the illegitimacy of his birth. As it was, 
U laszlo, the son of the King of Poland, afterwards called Ulaszlo 
the Second, who claimed Hungary as being descended from 
Albert, was nominated king by a great majority of the Magyar 
electors. Hunyadi John for some time disputed the throne with 
him ; there was some bloodshed, but Hunyadi John eventually 
submitted, and became the faithful captain of Ulaszlo, notwith- 
standing that the Turk offered to assist him with an army of two 
hundred thousand men. 

Myself. Go on. 

Hungarian. To what? lOxdiV, to Mohacs Veszedelem. 

Ulaszlo left a son, Lajos the Second, born without skin, as it is 


“C£ DRACU!'^ 


231 


1825.J 


said ; certainly without a head. He, contrary to the advice of all 
his wise counsellors, — and amongst them was Batory Stephen, who 
became eventually King of Poland — engaged, with twenty-five 
thousand men, at Mohacs, Soliman the Turk, who had an army of 
two hundred thousand. Drak ! the Magyars were annihilated. 
King Lajos disappeared with his heavy horse and armour in a bog. 
We call that battle, which was fought on the 29th of August, 
1526, the destruction of Mohacs, but it was the destruction of 
Hungary. 

Myself. You have twice used the word drak^ what is the 
meaning of it ? Is it Hungarian ? 

Hungarian. No ! it belongs to the mad Wallacks. They are 
a nation of madmen on the other side of Transylvania. Their 
country was formerly a fief of Hungary, like Moldavia, which is 
inhabited by the same race, who speak the same language and are 
equally mad. 

Myself. What language do they speak ? 

Hungarian. A* strange mixture of Latin and Sclavonian — they 
themselves being a mixed race of Romans and Sclavonians. 
Trajan sent certain legions to form military colonies in Dacia; 
and the present Wallacks and Moldavians are, to a certain extent, 
the descendants of the Roman soldiers, who married the women 
of the country. I say to a certain extent, for the Sclavonian 
element both in blood and language seems to prevail. 

Myself. And what is drak 1 

Hungarian. Dragon ; which the Wallacks use for “ devil ”. 
The term is curious, as it shows that the old Romans looked 
upon the dragon as an infernal being. 

Myself. You have been in Wallachia? 

Hungarian. I have, and glad I was to get out of it. I hate 
the mad Wallacks. 

Myself. Why do you call them mad ? 

Hungarian. They are always drinking or talking. I never 
saw a Wallachian eating or silent. They talk like madmen, and 
drink like madmen. In drinking they use small phials, the 
contents of which they pour down their throats. When I first 
went amongst them I thought the whole nation was under a 
course of physic, but the terrible jabber of their tongues soon un- 
deceived me. Drak was the first word I heard on entering Dacia, 
and the last when I left it. The Moldaves, if possible, drink 
more, and talk more than the Wallachians. 

Myself. It is singular enough that the only Moldavian I have 
known could not speak. I suppose he was born dumb. 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


232 


Hungarian. A Moldavian born dumb ! Excuse me, the 
thing is impossible, — all Moldavians are born talking ! I have 
known a Moldavian who could not speak, but he was not born 
dumb. His master, an Armenian, snipped off part of his tongue 
at Adrianople. He drove him mad with his jabber. He is now 
in London, where his master has a house. I have letters of credit 
on the house ; the clerk paid me money in London, the master 
was absent ; the money which you received for the horse belonged 
to that house. 

Myself. Another word with respect to Hungarian history. 

Hungarian, Drak ! I wish to say nothing more about Hun- 
garian history. 

Myself. The Turk, I suppose, after Mohacs, got possession of 
Hungary ? 

Hungarian. Not exactly. The Turk, upon the whole, showed 
great moderation; not so the Austrian. Ferdinand the First 
claimed the crown of Hungary as being the cousin of Maria, 
widow of Lajos; he found too many disposed to support him. 
His claim, however, was resisted by Zapolya John, a Hungarian 
magnate, who caused himself to be elected king. Hungary was 
for a long time devastated by wars between the partisans of 
Zapolya and Ferdinand. At last Zapolya called in the Turk. 
Soliman behaved generously to him, and after his death befriended 
his young son, and Isabella his queen ; eventually the Turks 
became masters of Transylvania and the greater part of Hungary. 
They were not bad masters, and had many friends in Hungary, 
especially amongst those of the reformed faith, to which I have 
myself the honour of belonging ; those of the reformed faith 
found the Mufti more tolerant than the Pope. Many Hungarians 
went with the Turks to the siege of Vienna, whilst Tekeli and his 
horsemen guarded Hungary for them. A gallant enterprise 
that siege of Vienna, the last great effort of the Turk ; it failed 
and he speedily lost Hungary, but he did not sneak from Hungary 
like a frightened hound. His defence of Buda will not be soon 
forgotten, where Apty Basha, the governor, died fighting like a 
lion in the breach. There’s many a Hungarian would prefer 
Stamboul to Vienna. Why does your Government always send 
fools to represent it at Vienna ? 

Myself. I have already 'told you that I cannot say. ^hat 
became of Tekeli? 

Hungarian. When Hungary was lost he retired with the Turks 
into Turkey. Count Renoncourt, in his Memoirs,, mentions having 
seen him at Adrianople. The Sultan, in consideration of the 


1825.] 


MAGYAR VALOUR. 


233 


services which he had rendered to the Moslem in Hungary, made 
over the revenues of certain towns and districts for his subsistence. 

' The count says that he always went armed to the teeth, and was 
always attended by a young female dressed in male attire, who 
had followed him in his wars, and had more than once saved his 
life. His end is wrapped in mystery, I — whose greatest boast, 
next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood — know nothing 
of his end. 

Myself. Allow me to ask who you are ? 

Hungarian. Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember., a poor Hun- 
garian nobleman, son of one yet poorer. I was born in Transyl- 
vania, not far to the west of good Coloscvar. I served some time 
in the Austrian army as a noble Hussar, but am now equerry to 
a great nobleman, to whom I am distantly related. In his service 
I have travelled far and wide, buying horses. I have been in 
Russia and in Turkey, and am now at Horncastle, where I have 
had the satisfaction to meet with you, and to buy your horse, 
which is, in truth, a noble brute. 

Myself. For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great 
deal of the history of your country. 

Hungarian. All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, 
whom we call Budai Ferentz. He was professor of Greek and 
Latin at the Reformed College of Debreczen, where I was edu- 
cated ; he wrote a work entitled Magyar Polgari Lexicon., Lives 
of Great Hungarian Citizens. He was dead before I was born, 
but I found his book, when I was a child, in the solitary home of 
my father, which stood on the confines of Rfuszta, or wilderness, 
and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the winds 
were whistling around the house. Oh ! how my blood used to 
glow at the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish ; 
for Florentius has always done justice to the Turk. Many a 
passage similar to this have I got by heart ; it is connected with 
a battle on the plain of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost : “ The next 
day, which was Friday, as the two armies were drawn up in battle 
array, a Magyar hero, riding forth, galloped up and down, challeng- 
ing the Turks to single combat. Then came out to meet him 
the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia ; rushing upon each other, 
both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled 
over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses.” 
O young man of Horncastle ! if ever you learn Hungarian — and 
learn it assuredly you will after what I have told you — read the 
book of Florentius of Buda, even if you go to Hungary to get it, 
for you will scarcely find it elsewhere, and even there with diffi- 


^34 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


[1825. 


culty, for the book has been long out of print. It describes the 
actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle of the 
sixteenth century ; and besides being written in the purest Hun- 
garian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the 
Reformed College at Debreczen. 

Myself. I will go to Hungary rather than not read it. I am 
glad that the Turk beat the Magyar. When 1 used to read the 
ballads of Spain I always sided with the Moor against the Christian. 

Hungarian. It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible 
horse of the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the 
two champions returned to their respective armies ; but in the 
grand conflict which ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing 
them till night, and striking them on the necks with their scimi- 
tars. The Turk is a noble fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, 
were I not a Magyar. 

Myself The Turk always keeps his word, I am told. 

Hungarian. Which the Christian very seldom does, and even 
the Hungarian does not always. In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at 
Szeged, peace with Amurath for ten years, which he swore with 
an oath to keep, but at the instigation of the Pope Julian he 
broke it, and induced his great captain, Hunyadi John, to share 
in the perjury. The consequence was the battle of Varna, of the 
loth of November, in which Hunyadi was routed, and Ulaszlo 
slain. Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is botJ> solemn and 
edifying : — 


Romulidae Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi ; 

. Discite mortales non temerare fidem ; 

Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere foedus 
Non ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum. 

“ Halloo ! ” said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which 
he had been indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon 
his breast, “ what is that? That’s not High Dutch ; I bargained 
for High Dutch, and I left you speaking what I believed to be High 
Dutch, as it sounded very much like the language of horses, as 
I have been told High Dutch does ; but as for what you are 
speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like the 
language of another kind of animal. I suppose you want to 
insult me, because I was once a dicky-boy.’’ 

“ Nothing of the kind,” said I ; “the gentleman was making 
a quotation in Latin.” 

“ Latin, was it ? ” said the jockey ; “ that alters the case. 
Latin is genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy to 


TtiE RUSSIANS. 


^35 


1825.] 


learn it. Come, let us hear you fire away in Latin,” he continued, 
proceeding to relight his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he 
had laid on the table. 

“If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin,” said the 
Hungarian, in very bad English, “ I can oblige you ; I learned 
to speak very good Latin in the college of Debreczen.” 

“That’s more,” said I, “than I have done in the colleges 
where I have been ; in any little conversation which we may yet 
have, I wish you would use German.” 

“Well,” said the jockey, taking a whiff, “make your conver- 
sation as short as possible, whether in Latin or Dutch, for, to 
tell you the truth, I am rather tired of merely playing listener.” 

“You were saying you had been in Russia,” said I; “I 
believe the Russians are part of the Sclavonian race.” 

Hungarian. Yes, part of the great Sclavonian family ; one of 
the most numerous races in the world. The Russians themselves 
are very numerous ; would that the Magyars could boast of the 
fifth part of their number ! 

Myself. What is the number of the Magyars ? 

Hungarian. Barely four millions. We came a tribe of Tartars 
into Europe, and settled down amongst Sclavonians, whom we 
conquered, but who never coalesced with us. The Austrian 
at present plays in Pannonia the Sclavonian against us, and us 
against the Sclavonian ; but the downfall of the Austrian is at 
hand ; they, like us, are not a numerous people. 

Myself. Who will bring about his downfall ? 

Hungarian. The Russians. The Rysckie Tsar will lead his 
people forth, all the Sclavonians will join him, he will conquer all 
before him. 

Myself. Are the Russians good soldiers ? 

Hungarian. They are stubborn and unflinching to an astonish- 
ing degree, and their fidelity to their Tsar is quite admirable. 
See how the Russians behaved at Plescova, in Livonia, in the old 
time, against our great Batory Stephen ; they defended the place 
till it was a heap of rubbish, and mark how they behaved after 
they had been made prisoners. Stephen offered them two 
alternatives : to enter into his service, in which they would 
have good pay, clothing and fair treatment ; or to be allowed to 
return to Russia. Without the slightest hesitation they, to a 
man, chose the latter, though well aware that their beloved Tsar, 
the cruel Ivan Basilowits, would put them all to death, amidst 
tortures the most horrible, for not doing what was impossible — 
preserving the town. 


236 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


Myself. You speak Russian? 

Hungarian. A little. I was born in the vicinity of a Sclavonian 
tribe ; the servants of our house were Sclavonians, and I early 
acquired something of their language, which differs not much 
from that of Russia ; when in that country I quickly understood 
what was said. 

Myself. Have the Russians any literature ? 

Hungarian. Doubtless ; but I am not acquainted with it, as I 
do not read their language ; but I know something of their popular 
tales, to which I used to listen in their izbushkas ; a principal 
personage in these is a creation quite original — called Baba Yaga. 

Myself. Who is Baba Yaga ? 

Hungarian. A female phantom, who is described as hurrying 
along the puszta, or steppe, in a mortar, pounding with a pestle 
at a tremendous rate, and leaving a long trace on the ground be- 
hind her with her tongue, which is three yards long, and with 
which she seizes any men and horses coming in her way, swallow- 
ing them down into her capacious belly. She has several daughters, 
very handsome, and with plenty of money; happy the young 
Mujik who catches and marries one of them, for they make 
excellent wives. 

Many thanks,” said I, “ for the information you have afforded 
me : this is rather poor wine,” I observed, as I poured out a glass ; 
“ I suppose you have better wine in Hungary?” 

“ Yes, we have better wine in Hungary. First of all there 
is Tokay, the most celebrated in the world, though I confess I 
prefer the wine of Eger — Tokay is too sweet.” 

“ Have you ever been at Tokay?” 

“ I have,” said the Hungarian. 

“ What kind of place is Tokay? ” 

“ A small town situated on the Tyzza, a rapid river descending 
from the north ; the Tokay Mountain is just behind the town, 
which stands on the right bank. The top of the mountain is 
called Kopacs Teto, or the bald tip; the hill is so steep that 
during thunderstorms pieces of it frequently fall down upon the 
roofs of the houses. It was planted with vines by King Lajos, 
who ascended the throne in the year 1342. , The best wine 
called Tokay is, however, not made at Tokay, but at Kassau, two 
leagues farther into the Ca^-pathians, of which Tokay is a spur. 
If you wish to drink the best Tokay, you must go to Vienna, to 
which place all the prime is sent. For the third time I ask you, 
O young man of Horncastle ! why does your Government always 
send fools to represent it at Vienna ? ” 


1825.] 


TOKAY. 


237 


“And for the third time I tell you, O son of Almus ! that I 
cannot say ; perhaps, however, to drink the sweet Tokay wine ; 
fools, you know, always like sweet things.” 

“Good,” said the Hungarian; “it must be so, and when I 
return to Hungary, I will state to my countrymen your explana- 
tion of a circumstance which has frequently caused them great 
perplexity. Oh ! the English are a clever people, and have a 
deep meaning in all they do. What a vision of deep policy opens 
itself to my view ! they do not send their fool to Vienna in order 
to gape at processions, and to bow and scrape at a base Papist 
court, but to drink at the great dinners the celebrated Tokay 
of Hungary, which the Hungarians, though they do not drink it, 
are very proud of, and by doing so to intimate the sympathy which 
the English entertain for their fellow religionists of Hungary. Oh ! 
the English are a deep people.” 


CHAPTER XL. 


The pipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited 
considerable symptoms of exhaustion, little or no ruttling having 
been heard in the tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn 
through the syphon, having been emitted from the lips of the 
possessor. He now rose from his seat, and going to a corner 
of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then striding up and 
down the room, he cracked his fingers several times, exclaiming, in 
a half-musing mafiner : “ Oh, the deep nation, which, in order to 
display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to 
drink the sweet wine of Tokay ! ” 

The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with 
evident approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his 
on which there was no speck, saying : “ Did you ever see a taller 
'fellow? ” 

Never,” said I. 

“Or a finer? ” 

“That’s another question,” said I, “which I am not so 
willing to answer ; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to 
flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I have seen a finer.” 

“A finer! where?” said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, 
who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked 
full at me. 

“Amongst a strange set of people,” said I, “whom, if I were 
to name, you would, I daresay, only laugh at me.” 

“ Who be they ? ” said the jockey. “ Come, don’t be ashamed ; 
I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.” 

“The people whom we call gypsies,” said I; “whom the 
Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.” 

“Zigeuner!” said the Hungarian; “by Isten I I do know 
those people.” 

“ Romany chals 1 ” said the jockey ; “ whew ! I begin to smell 
a rat.” 

“ What do you mean by smelling a rat? ” said I. 

“I’ll bet a crown,” said the jockey, “ that you be the young 
chap what certain folks call ‘ the Romany Rye ’.” 


1825.] 


THE DISCOVERY. 


239 


“ Ah ! ” said 1, “ how came you to know that name ? ” 

“ Be not you he ? ” said the jockey. 

“ Why, I certainly have been called by that name.” 

“ I could have sworn it,” said the jockey ; then rising from his 
chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which 
stood on the sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and 
commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the stair- 
case. The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the 
jockey vociferated, “Go to your master, and tell him to send 
immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind 
you, which is twelve guineas a dozen ” ; the waiter hurried away, 
and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent 
astonishment until the waiter returned with a basket containing 
the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table. 
The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow window at the 
end of the room, which looked into a courtyard, peeped out ; 
then saying, “ the coast is clear,” he shut down the principal sash 
which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of 
champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to 
whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed to 
understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the 
end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from 
it, stood before it, holding the bottles by their necks ; suddenly 
the jockey lifted up his arm. “ Surely,” said I, “ you are not mad 
enough to fling that bottle through the window?” “Here’s to 
the Romany Rye ; here’s to the sweet master,” said the jockey, 
dashing the bottle through a pane in so neat a manner that 
scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room. 

“ Eljen edes csigany ur — eljen gul eray ! ” said the Hungarian, 
swinging round his bottle, and discharging it at the window ; but, 
either not possessing the jockey’s accuracy of aim, or reckless of 
consequences, he flung his bottle so, that it struck against part 
of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood 
and itself three or four panes to pieces. The crash was horrid, 
and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no 
small danger of its inmates. “What do you think of that?” said 
the jockey ; “ were you ever so honoured before ? ” “ Honoured ! ” 

said I. “ God preserve me in future from such honour ; ” and I 
put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle 
of the glass. “That’s the way we of the cofrady honour great 
men at Horncastle,” said the jockey. “What, you are hurt! 
never mind ; all the better ; your scratch shows that you are the 
body the compliment was paid to.” “And what are you going 


240 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


to do with the other bottle?” said 1. “Do with it!” said the 
jockey, “ why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding 
a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an 
idea 1 ” 

“ And what will the master of the house say to all this damage 
which you have caused him 1 ” 

“What will your master say, William ?” said the jockey to the 
waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described with- 
out exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, 
and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied : “ Very little, I dare 
S9y, sir ; this a’n’t the first time your honour has done a thing of 
this kind”. “Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid 
for it,” said the jockey; “well, I shall never have paid for a 
certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for 
it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink 
champagne.” 

The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky 
liquor, which bubbled, hissed and foamed. “ How do you like 
it ? ” said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my com- 
panions, by despatching my portion at a draught. 

“ It is wonderful wine,” said I ; “I have never tasted champagne 
before, though I have frequently heard it praised ; it more than 
answers my expectations ; but, I confess, I should not wish to be 
obliged to drink it every day.” 

“Nor I,” said the jockey, “for everyday drinking give me a 
glass of old port, or ” 

“Of hard old ale,” I interposed, “which, according to my 
mind, is better than all the wine in the world.” 

“Well said, Romany Rye,” said the jockey, “just my own 
opinion ; now, William, make yourself scarce.” 

The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey : “ How did you 
become acquainted with the Romany chals ? ” 

“ I first became acquainted with them,” said the jockey, 
“ when I lived with old Fulcher the basketmaker, who took me 
up when I was adrift upon the world ; I do not mean the present 
Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who 
has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the 
caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter 
years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line.” 

“And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?” said I. 

“ Frequently,” said the jockey, “ and not only those of these 
parts ; why, there’s scarcely a part of England in which I have 
not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these 


THOR AlSfD TZERNEEOCK. 


1825.] 


^4i 


people. The power you have over them is wonderful ; that is, I 
should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once 
told me the cause.” 

“And what is the cause?” said I, “for I am sure I do not 
know.’’ 

“ The cause is this,” said the jockey, “ they never heard a 
bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a 
bad thing.” 

“ They are a singular people,” said I. 

“ And what a singular language they have got,” said the jockey. 

“ Do you know it ? ” said I. 

“ Only a few words,” said the jockey ; “ they were always chary 
in teaching me any.” 

“ They were vary sherry to me to,” said the Hungarian, 
speaking in broken English ; “ I only could learn from them 
half a dozen words, for example, gu/ eray, which, in the czigany 
of my country, means sweet gentleman, or edes ur in my own 
Magyar.” 

“Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar’d 
gentleman,” said I; “then there are gypsies in your country?” 

“Plenty,” said the Hungarian, speaking German, “and in 
Russia and Turkey too ; and wherever they are found, they are 
alike in their ways and language. Oh, they are a strange race, 
and how little known ! I know little of them, but enough to 
say that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about 
them ; there is one Valter Scott ” 

“ Mind what you say about him,” said I ; “he is our grand 
authority in matters of philology and history.” 

“A pretty philologist,” said the Hungarian, “who makes 
the gypsies speak Roth-Welsch, the dialect of thieves ; a pretty 
historian, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock.” 

“ Where does he do that ? ” said I. 

“ In his conceited romance of Ivanhoe^ he couples Thor and 
Tzernebock together, and calls them gods of the heathen Saxons.” 

“Well,” said I, “Thur or Thor was certainly a god of the 
heathen Saxons.” 

“True,” said the Hungarian; “but why couple him with 
Tzernebock? Tzernebock was a word which your Valter had 
picked up somewhere without knowing the meaning. Tzernebock 
was no god of the Saxons, but one of the gods of the Sclaves, on 
the southern side of the Baltic. The Sclaves had two grand gods 
to whom they sacrificed, Tzernebock and Bielebock ; that is, the 
black and white gods, who represented the powers of dark and 

16 


242 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


light. They were overturned by Waldemar, the Dane, the great 
enemy of the Sclaves ; the account of whose wars you will find in 
one fine old book, written by Saxo Gramaticus, which I read in 
the library of the college of Debreczen. The Sclaves, at one 
time, were masters of all the southern shore of the Baltic, where 
their descendants are still to be found, though they have lost their 
language, and call themselves Germans ; but the word Zernevitz 
near Dantzic, still attests that the Sclavic language was once 
common in those parts. Zernevitz means the thing of black- 
ness, as Tzernebock means the god of blackness. Prussia itself 
merely means, in Sclavish, Lower Russia. There is scarcely a race 
or language in the world more extended than the Sclavic. On the 
other side of the Dunau you will find the Sclaves and their 
language. Czernavoda is Sclavic, and means black water ; in 
Turkish, kara su ; even as Tzernebock means black god; and 
Belgrade, or Belograd, means the white town, even as Biele- 
bock, or Bielebog, means the white god. Oh ! he is one great 
ignorant, that Valter. He is going, they say, to write one history 
about Napoleon. I do hope that in his history he will couple 
his Thor and Tzernebock together. By my God ! it would be 
good diversion that.” 

“ Walter Scott appears to be no particular favourite of yours,” 
said I. 

“ He is not,” said the Hungarian ; “ I hate him for his slavish 
principles. He wishes to see absolute power restored jn this 
country, and Popery also — and I hate him because — what do 
you think? In one of his novels, published a few months ago, 
he has the insolence to insult Hungary in the person of one 
of her sons. He makes his great braggart, Coeur de Lion, fling 
a Magyar over his head. Ha ! it was well for Richard that 
he never felt the gripe of a Hungarian. I wish the braggart 
could have felt the grip of me, who am ‘ a magyarok kozt legkis- 
sebb,’ thQ least among the Magyars. I do hate that Scott, and 
all his vile gang of Lowlanders and Highlanders. The black 
corps, the fekeie regiment of Matyas Hunyadi, was worth all 
the Scots, high or low, that ever pretended to be soldiers ; and 
would have sent them all headlong into the Black Sea, had they 
dared to confront it on its shores ; but why be angry with 
an ignorant, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock ? Ha ! 
Ha!” ' 

“You have read his novels?” said I. 

“Yes, I read them now and then. I do not speak much 
English, but I can read it well, and I have read some of his 


IVANHOE. 


243 


1825-] 


romances and mean to read his Napoleon, in the hope of finding 
Thor and Tzernebock coupled together in it, as in his high-flying 
Ivanhoe” 

“Come,” said the jockey, “no more Dutch, whether high 
or low. I am tired of it ; unless we can have some English, 
I am off to bed.” 

“ I should be very glad to hear some English,” said I, “ especi- 
ally from your mouth. Several things which you have mentioned, 
have awakened my curiosity. Suppose you give us your history ? ” 

“ My history ? ” said the jockey. “ A rum idea ! however, less 
conversation should lag. I’ll give it you. First of all, however, 
a glass of champagne to each.” 

After we had each taken a glass of champagne, the jockey 
commenced his history. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


“My grandfather was a shorter, and my father jwas a smasher; 
the one was scragg’d, and the other lagg’d.” 

I here interrupted the jockey by observing that his discourse 
was, for the greater part, unintelligible to me. 

“ I do not understand much English,” said the Hungarian, 
who, having replenished and resumed his mighty pipe, was now 
smoking away ; but, by Isten, I believe it is the gibberish which 
that great ignorant Valter Scott puts into the mouth of the folks 
he calls gypsies.” 

“ Something like it, I confess,” said I, “ though this sounds 
more genuine than his dialect, which he picked up out of the 
canting vocabulary at the end of the English Rogue, a book 
which, however despised, was written by a remarkable genius. 
What do you call the speech you were using ? ” said I, addressing 
myself to the jockey. 

“ Latin,” said the jockey very coolly ; “ that is, that dialect 
of it which is used by the light-fingered gentry.” J 

“ He is right,” said the Hungarian; “it is what the Germans 
call Roth-Welsch : they call it so because there are a great many 
Latin words in it, introduced by the priests, who, at the time 
of the Reformation, being too lazy to work and too stupid to 
preach, joined the bands of thieves and robbers who prowled 
about the country. Italy, as you are aware, is called by the 
Germans Welschland, or the land of the Welschers ; and I may 
add that Wallachia derives its name from a colony of Welschers 
which Trajan sent there. Welsch and Wallack being one and 
the same word, and tantamount to Latin.” 

“ I dare say you are right,” said I ; “but why was Italy 
termed Welschland?” 

“I do not know,” said the Hungarian. 

“Then I think I can tell you,” said I; “it was called 
so because the original inhabitants were a Cimbric tribe, who 
were called Gwyltiad, that is, a race of wild people, living 
in coverts, who were of the same blood, and spoke the same 
language as the present inhabitants of Wales. Welsh seems 

(244) 


1825.] 


THE JOCKEYS TALE. 


245 


merely a modification of Gwyltiad. Pray, continue your history,” 
said I to the jockey, “ only please to do so in a language which 
we can understand, and first of all interpret the sentence with 
which you began it.” 

“I told you that my grandfather was a shorter,” said the 
jockey, “ by which is meant a gentleman who shortens or reduces 
the current coin of these realms, for which practice he was scragged, 
that is, hung by the scrag of the neck. And when I said that 
my father was a smasher, I meant one who passes forged notes, 
thereby doing his best to smash the Bank of England ; by being 
lagged, I meant he was laid fast, that is, had a chain put round 
his leg and then transported.” 

“Your explanations are perfectly satisfactory,” said I; “the 
three first words are metaphorical, and the fourth, lagged, is the 
old genuine Norse term, lagda, which signifies laid, whether in 
durance, or in bed, has nothing to do with the matter. What 
you have told me confirms me in an opinion which I have long 
entertained, that thieves’ Latin is a strange, mysterious speech, 
formed of metaphorical terms, and words derived from various 
ancient languages. Pray, tell me, now, how the gentleman, your 
grandfather, contrived to shorten the coin of these realms ? ” 

“You shall hear,” said the jockey; “but I have one thing to 
beg of you, which is, that when I have once begun my history 
you will not interrupt me with questions. I don’t like them, they 
stops one, and puts one out of one’s tale, and are not wanted ; 
for anything which I think can’t be understood, I should myself 
explain, without being asked. My grandfather reduced or shortened 
the coin of this country by three processes : by aquafortis, by 
clipping and by filing. Filing and clipping he employed in 
reducing all kinds of coin, whether gold or silver ; but aquafortis he 
used merely in reducing gold coin, whether guineas, jacobuses or 
Portugal pieces, otherwise called moidores, which were at one 
time as current as guineas. By laying a guinea in aquafortis for 
twelve hours, he could filch from it to the value of ninepence, 
and by letting it remain there for twenty-four to the value of 
eighteenpence, the aquafortis eating the gold away, and leaving 
it like a sediment in the vessel. He was generally satisfied with 
taking the value of ninepence from a guinea, of eighteenpence 
from a jacobus or moidore, or half a crown from a broad Spanish 
piece, whether he reduced them by aquafortis, filing or clipping. 
From a five-shilling piece, which is called a bull in Latin, because 
it is round like a bull’s head, he would file or clip to the value of 
fivepence, and front lesser coin in proportion. He was connected 


246 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


with a numerous gang, or set, of people, who had given up their 
minds and talents entirely to shortening.” 

Here I interrupted the jockey. “ How singular,” said I, “ is 
the fall and debasement of words ; you talk of a gang, or set, of 
shorters ; you are, perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a 
thousand years ago, only connected with the great and Divine ; 
they are ancient Norse words, which may be found in the heroic 
poems of the north, and in the Edda, a collection of mythologic 
and heroic songs. In these poems we read that such and such a 
king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes ; or so and so, for 
example, Erik Bloodaxe, was admitted to the set of gods ; but at 
present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, 
and the lowest of the low, — we say a gang of thieves and shorters, 
or a set of authors. How touching is this debasement of words 
in the course of time ; it puts me in mind of the decay of old 
houses and names. I have known a Mortimer who was a hedger 
and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a workhouse, and a 
descendant of the De Burghs, who bore the falcon, mending old 
kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle.” 

“Odd enough,” said the jockey; “but you were saying you 
knew one Berners — man or woman? I would ask.” 

“A woman,” said I. 

“ What might her Christian name be ? ” said the jockey. 

“ It is not to be mentioned lightly,” said I with a sigh. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if it were Isopel,” said the jockey with 
an arch glance of his one brilliant eye. 

“ It was Isopel,” said I ; “did you know Isopel Berners?” 

“ Aye, and have reason to know her,” said the jockey, putting 
his hand into his left waistcoat pocket, as if to feel for something, 
“for she gave me what I believe few men could do — a most 
confounded whopping. But now, Mr. Romany Rye, I have 
again to tell you that I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m 
speaking, and to add that if you break in upon me a third time, 
you and I shall quarrel.” 

“ Pray, proceed with your story,” said I ; “ I will not interrupt 
you again.” 

“ Good ! ” said the jockey. “ Where was I ? Oh, with a set 
of people who had given up their minds to shortening ! Reducing 
the coin, though rather a lucrative, was a very dangerous trade. 
Coin filed felt rough to the touch ; coin clipped could be easily 
detected by the eye ; and as for coin reduced by aquafortis, it 
was generally so discoloured that, unless a great deal of pains was 
used to polish it, people were apt to star^ at it in a strange 


1825.] 


THE SMASHl^. 


247 


manner, and to say: ‘What have they been doing to this here 
gold ? ’ My grandfather, as I said before, was connected with a 
gang of Shorters, and sometimes shortened money, and at other 
times passed off what had been shortened by other gentry. 

“ Passing off what had been shortened by others was his ruin ; 
for once, in trying to pass off a broad piece which had been laid 
in aquafortis for four-and-twenty hours, and was very black, not 
having been properly rectified, he was stopped and searched, and 
other reduced coins being found about him, and in his lodgings, 
he was committed to prison, tried and executed. He was offered 
his life, provided he would betray his comrades ; but he told the 
big-wigs, who wanted him to do so, that he would see them farther 
first, and died at Tyburn, amidst the cheers of the populace, leaving 
my grandmother and father, to whom he had always been a kind 
husband and parent — for, setting aside the crime for which he 
suffered, he was a moral man — leaving them, I say, to bewail his 
irreparable loss. 

“ 'Tis said that misfortune never comes alone; this is, how- 
ever, not always the case. Shortly after my grandfather’s misfor- 
tune, as my grandmother and her son were living in great misery 
in Spitalfields, her only relation — a brother from whom she had 
been estranged some years, on account of her marriage with my 
grandfather, who had been in an inferior station to herself — died, 
leaving all his property to her and the child. This property 
consisted of a farm of about a hundred acres, with its stock, and 
some money besides. My grandmother, who knew something of 
business, instantly went into the country, where she farmed the 
property for her own benefit and that of her son, to whom she 
gave an education suitable to a person in his condition, till he was 
old enough to manage the farm himself. Shortly after the young 
man came of age, my grandmother died, and my father, in about 
a year, married the daughter of a farmer, from whom he expected 
some little fortune, but who very much deceived him, becoming 
a bankrupt almost immediately after the marriage of his daughter, 
and himself and family going to the workhouse. 

“ My mother, however, made my father an excellent wife ; 
and if my father in the long run did not do well it was no fault 
of hers. My father was not a bad man by nature ; he was of an 
easy, generous temper — the most unfortunate temper, by-the-bye, 
for success in this life that any person can be possessed of, 
as those who have it are almost sure to be made dupes, of by the 
designing. But, though easy and generous, he was anything 
but a fool ; he had a quick and witty tongue of his own when 


248 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


he chose to exert it, and woe be to those who insulted him 
openly, for there was not a better boxer in the whole country 
round. My parents were married several years before I came 
into the world, who was their first and only child. I may be 
called an unfortunate creature ; I was born with this beam 
or scale on my left eye, which does not allow me to see with it ; 
and though I can see tolerably sharply with the other, indeed 
more than most people can with both of theirs, it is a great 
misfortune not to have two eyes like other people. Moreover, 
setting aside the affair of my eye, I had a very ugly countenance, 
my mouth being slightly wrung aside, and my complexion 
rather swarthy. In fact, I looked so queer that the gossips and 
neighbours, when they first saw me, swore I was a changeling — 
perhaps it would have been well if I had never been born ; for 
my poor father, who had been particularly anxious to have a son, 
no sooner saw me than he turned away, went to the neighbouring 
town, and did not return for two days. I am by no means 
certain that I was not the cause of his ruin, for till I came into 
the world he was fond of his home, and attended much to busi- 
ness, but afterwards he went frequently into company and did 
not seem to care much about his affairs : he was, however, a kind 
man, and when his wife gave him advice never struck her, nor do 
I ever remember that he kicked me when I came in his way, or 
so much as cursed my ugly face, though it was easy to see that 
he didn’t over-like me. When I was six years old I was sent 
to the village school, where I was soon booked for a dunce, 
because the master found it impossible to teach me either to read 
or write. Before I had been at school two years, however, I had 
beaten boys four years older than myself, and could fling a stone 
with my left hand (for if I am right-eyed I am left-handed) higher 
and farther than any one in the parish. Moreover, no boy could 
equal me at riding, and no people ride so well or desperately as 
boys. I could ride a donkey — a thing far more difficult to ride 
than a horse — at full galop over hedges and ditches, seated, 
or rather floating upon his hinder part ; so, though anything but 
clever, as this here Romany Rye would say, I was yet able to do 
things which few other people could do. By the time I was ten 
my father’s affairs had got into a very desperate condition, for he 
had taken to gambling and horse-racing, and, being unsuccessful, 
had sold his stock, mortgaged his estate, and incurred very serious 
debts. The upshot was, that within a little time all he had was 
seized, himself imprisoned, and my mother and myself put into 
a cottage belonging to the parish, which, being very cold and 


1825.] 


IN QUOD. 


249 


damp, was the cause of her catching a fever, which speedily 
carried her off. I was then bound apprentice to a farmer, 
in whose service I underwent much coarse treatment, cold 
and hunger. 

“ After lying in prison near two years, my father was liberated 
by an Act for the benefit of insolvent debtors ; he was then lost 
sight of for some time ; at last, however, he made his appearance 
in the neighbourhood dressed like a gentleman, and seemingly 
possessed of plenty of money. He came to see me, took me 
into a field, and asked me how I was getting on. I told him I 
was dreadfully used, and begged him to take me away with him ; 
he refused, and told me to be satisfied with my condition, for 
that he could do nothing for me. I had a great love for my father, 
and likewise a great admiration for him on account of his character 
as a boxer, the only character which boys in general regard, so I 
wished much to be with him, independently of the dog’s life I was 
leading where I was ; I therefore said if he would not take me 
with him, I would follow him ; he replied that I must do no such 
thing, for that if I did, it would be my ruin. I asked him what 
he meant, but he made no reply, only saying that he would go 
and speak to the farmer. Then taking me with him, he went 
to the farmer, and in a very civil manner said that he understood 
I had not been very kindly treated by him, but he hoped that in 
future I should be used better. The farmer answered in a surly 
tone, that I had been only too well treated, for that I was a 
worthless young scoundrel ; high words ensued, and the farmer, 
forgetting the kind of man he had to deal with, checked him with 
my grandsire’s misfortune, and said he deserved to be hanged like 
his father. In a moment my father knocked him down, and on 
his getting up, gave him a terrible beating, then taking me by 
the hand he hastened away; as we were going down a lane he 
said we were now both done for. ‘ I don’t care a straw for that, 
father,’ said I, ‘provided I be with you.’ My father took me to 
the neighbouring town, and going into the yard of a small inn, he 
ordered out a pony and light cart which belonged to him, then 
paying his bill, he told me to mount upon the seat, and getting 
up drove away like lightning ; we drove for at least six hours 
without stopping, till we came to a cottage by the side of a heath ; 
we put the pony and cart into a shed, and went into the cottage, 
my father unlocking the door with a key which he took out of his 
pocket ; there was nobody in the cottage when we arrived, but 
shortly after there came a man and woman, and then some 
more people, and by ten o’clock at night there were a dozen of 


250 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


us in the cottage. The people were companions of my father. 
My father began talking to them in Latin, but I did not under- 
stand much of the discourse, though I believe it was about 
myself, as their eyes were frequently turned to me. Some 
objections appeared to be made to what he said ; however, all 
at last seemed to be settled, and we all sat down to some food. 
After that, all the people got up and went away, with the excep- 
tion of the woman, who remained with my father and me. The 
next day my father also departed, leaving me with the woman, 
telling me before he went that she would teach me some things 
which it behoved me to know. I remained with her in the 
cottage upwards of a week ; several of those who had been there 
coming and going. The woman, after making me take an oath 
to be faithful, told me that the people whom I had seen were a 
gang who got their livelihood by passing forged notes, and that 
my father was a principal man amongst them, adding that I must 
do my best to assist them. I was a poor ignorant child at that 
time, and I made no objection, thinking that whatever my father 
did must be right ; the woman then gave me some instructions 
in the smasher’s dialect of the Latin language. I made great 
progress, because, for the first time in my life, I paid great 
attention to my lessons. At last my father returned, and, after 
some conversation with the woman, took me away in his cart. 
I shall be very short about what happened to my father and 
myself during two years. My father did his best to smash the 
Bank of England by passing forged notes, and I did my best 
to assist him. We attended races and fairs in all kinds of 
disguises ; my father was a first-rate hand at a disguise, and 
could appear of all ages, from twenty to fourscore; he was, 
however, grabbed at last. He had said, as I have told you, that 
he should be my ruin, but I was the cause of his, and all owing 
to the misfortune of this here eye of mine. We came to this 
very place of Horncastle, where my father purchased two horses 
of a young man, paying for them with three forged notes purport- 
ing to be Bank of Englanders of fifty pounds each, and got the 
young man to change another of the like amount ; he at that 
time appeared as a respectable dealer and I as his son, as I 
really was. 

“As soon as we had got the horses we conveyed them to one 
of the places of call belonging to our gang, of which there were 
several. There they were delivered into the hands of one of our 
companions, who speedily sold them in a distant part of the country. 
The sum which they fetched — for the gang kept very regular 


1825.] 


AN OLD OFFENDER. 


251 


accounts — formed an important item on the next day of sharing, 
of which there were twelve in the year. The young man, whom 
my father had paid for the horses with his smashing notes, was 
soon in trouble about them, and ran some risk, as I heard, of 
being executed ; but he bore a good character, told a plain story, 
and, above all, had friends, and was admitted to bail ; to one 
of his friends he described my father and myself. This person 
happened to beat an inn in Yorkshire, where my father, disguised 
as a Quaker, attempted to pass a forged note. The note was 
shown to this individual, who pronounced it a forgery, it being 
exactly similar to those for which the young man had been in 
trouble, and which he had seen. My father, however, being 
supposed a respectable man, because he was dressed as a Quaker — 
the very reason, by-the-bye why anybody who knew aught of the 
Quakers would have suspected him to be a rogue — would have 
been let go, had I not made my appearance, dressed as his 
footboy. The friend of the young man looked at my eye, and 
seized hold of my father, who made a desperate resistance, I 
assisting him as in duty bound. Being, however, overpowered 
by numbers, he bade me by a look, and a word or two in Latin, 
to make myself scarce. Though my heart was fit to break, I 
obeyed my father, who was speedily committed. I followed him 
to the county town in which he was lodged, where shortly after I 
saw him tried, convicted and condemned. I then, having made 
friends with the jailor’s wife, visited him in his cell, where I found 
him very much cast down. He said, that my mother had appeared 
to him in a dream, and talked to him about a resurrection and 
Christ Jesus ; there was a Bible before him, and he told me the 
chaplain had just been praying with him. He reproached himself 
much, saying, he was afraid he had been my ruin, by teaching me 
bad habits. I told him not to say any such thing, for that I had 
been the cause of his, owing to the misfortune of my eye. He 
begged me to give over all unlawful pursuits, saying, that if 
persisted in, they were sure of bringing a person to destruction. 
I advised him to try and make his escape, proposing that when 
the turnkey came to let me out, he should knock him down, and 
fight his way out, offering to assist him ; showing him a small saw, 
with which one of our companions, who was in the neighbourhood, 
had provided me, and with which he could have cut through his 
fetters in five minutes ; but he told me he had no wish to escape, 
and was quite willing to die. I was rather hard at that time ; I 
am not very soft now ; and I felt rather ashamed of my father’s 
want of what I called spirit. He was nof executed after all ; for 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


253 


the chaplain, who was connected with a great family, stood his 
friend and got his sentence commuted, as they call it, to trans- 
portation ; and in order to make the matter easy, he induced 
my father to make some valuable disclosures with respect to the 
smashers’ system. I confess that I would have been hanged 
before I would have done so, after having reaped the profit of 
it ; that is, I think so now, seated comfortably in my inn, with 
my bottle of champagne before me. He, however, did not show 
himself carrion ; he would not betray his companions, who had 
behaved very handsomely to him, having given the son of a lord, 
a great barrister, not a hundred-pound forged bill, but a hundred 
hard guineas, to plead his cause, and another ten, to induce him, 
after pleading, to put his hand to his breast, and say that, upon 
his honour, he believed the prisoner at the bar to be an honest 
and injured man. No ; I am glad to be able to say, that my 
father did not show himself exactly carrion, though I could 

almost have wished he had let himself However, I am 

here with my bottle of champagne and the Romany Rye, and 
he was in his cell, with bread and water and the prison chaplain. 
He took an affectionate leave of me before he was sent away, 
giving me three out of five guineas, all the money he had left. 
He was a kind man, but not exactly fitted to fill my grandfather’s 
shoes. I afterwards learned that he died of fever, as he was 
being carried across the sea. 

“ During the ’sizes I had made acquaintance with old Fulcher. 
I was in the town on my father’s account, and he was there on 
his son’s, who, having committed a small larceny, was in trouble. 
Young Fulcher, however, unlike my father, got off, though he did 
not give the son of a lord a hundred guineas to speak for him, and 
ten more to pledge his sacred honour for his honesty, but gave 

Counsellor P one-and-twenty shillings to defend him, who so 

frightened the principal evidence, a plain honest farming-man, 
that he flatly contradicted what he had first said, and at last 
acknowledged himself to be all the rogues in the world, and, 
amongst other things, a perjured villain. Old Fulcher, before he 
left the town with his son, — and here it will be well to say that he 
and his son left it in a kind of triumph, the base drummer of a 
militia regiment, to whom they had given half a crown, beating 
his drum before them — old Fulcher I say, asked me to go and 
visit him, telling me where, at such a time, I might find him and 
his caravan and family; offering, if I thought fit, to teach me 
basket-making : so, after my father had been sent off, I went and 
fpund up old Fulcher, and became his apprentice in t\ie basket- 


1825.] 


OLD FULCHER. 


253 


making line. I stayed with him till the time of his death, which 
happened in about three months, travelling about with him and 
his family, and living in green lanes, where we saw gypsies and 
trampers, and all kinds of strange characters. Old Fulcher, 
besides being an industrious basket-maker, was an out and out 
thief, as was also his son, and, indeed, every member of his family. 
They used to make baskets during the day, and thieve during a 
great part of the night. I had not been with them twelve hours, 
before old Fulcher told me that I must thieve as well as the rest. 
I demurred at first, for I remembered the fate of my father, and 
what he had told me about leaving off bad courses, but soon 
allowed myself to be over-persuaded, more especially as the first 
robbery I was asked to do was a fruit robbery. I was to go with 
young Fulcher, and steal some fine Morell cherries, which grew 
against a wall in a gentleman’s garden ; so young Fulcher and I 
went and stole the cherries, one half of which we ate, and gave- 
the rest to the old man, who sold them to a fruiterer ten miles off 
from the place where we had stolen them. The next night old 
Fulcher took me out with himself. He was a great thief, though 
in a small way. He used to say, that they were fools, who did not 
always manage to keep the rope below their shoulders, by which 
he meant, that it was not advisable to commit a robbery, or do 
anything which could bring you to the gallows. He was all for 
petty larceny, and knew where to put his hand upon any little 
thing in England, which it was possible to steal. I submit it to 
the better judgment of the Romany Rye, who I see is a great 
hand for words and names, whether he ought not to have been 
called old Filcher, instead of Fulcher. I shan’t give a regular 
account of the larcenies which he committed during the short 
time I knew him, either alone by himself, or with me and his 
son. I shall merely relate the last : — 

“ A melancholy gentleman, who lived a very solitary life, had 
a large carp in a shady pond in a meadow close to his house ; he 
was exceedingly fond of it, and used to feed it with his own hand, 
the creature being so tame that it would put its snout out of the 
water to be fed when it was whistled to ; feeding and looking at 
his carp were the only pleasures the poor melancholy gentleman 
possessed. Old Fulcher — being in the neighbourhood, and hav- 
ing an order from a fishmonger for a large fish, which was wanted 
at a great city dinner, at which His Majesty was to be present — 
swore he would steal the carp, and asked me to go with him. I 
had heard of the gentleman’s fondness for his creature, and 
begged him to let it be, advising him to go and steal some other 


254 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


fish; but old Fulcher swore, and said he would have the carp, 
although its master should hang himself ; I told him he might go 
by himself, but he took his son and stole the carp, which weighed 
seventeen pounds. Old Fulcher got thirty shillings for the carp, 
which I afterwards heard was much admired and relished by His 
Majesty. The master, however, of the carp, on losing his favourite, 
became more melancholy than ever, and in a little time hanged 
himself. ‘ What’s sport for one, is death to another,’ I once heard 
at the village school read out of a copy-book. 

“This was the last larceny old Fulcher ever committed. He 
could keep his neck always out of the noose, but he could not 
always keep his leg out of the trap. A few nights after, having 
removed to a distance, he went to an osier car in order to steal 
some osiers for his basket-making, for he never bought any. I 
followed a little way behind. Old Fulcher had frequently stolen 
osiers out of the car, whilst in the neighbourhood, but during his 
absence the property, of which the car was a part, had been let 
to a young gentleman, a great hand for preserving game. Old 
Fulcher had not got far into the car before he put his foot into a 
man-trap. Hearing old Fulcher shriek, I ran up, and found him 
in a dreadful condition. Putting a large sfick which I carried into 
the jaws of the trap, I contrived to prize them open, and get old 
Fulcher’s leg out, but the leg was broken. So I ran to the caravan, 
and told young Fulcher of what had happened, and he and I 
went and helped his father home. A doctor was sent for, who 
said it was necessary to take the leg off, but old Fulcher, being 
very much afraid of pain, said it should not be taken off, and the 
doctor went away, but after some days, old Fulcher becoming 
worse, ordered the doctor to be sent for, who came and took off 
his leg, but it was then too late, mortification had come on, and 
in a little time old Fulcher died. 

“ Thus perished old Fulcher ; he was succeeded in his business 
by his son, young Fulcher, who, immediately after the death of his 
father, was called old Fulcher, it being our English custom to call 
everybody old, as soon as their fathers are buried ; young Fulcher 
— I mean he who had been balled young, but was now old Ful- 
cher — wanted me to go out and commit larcenies with him ; but 
I told him that I would have nothing more to do with thieving, 
having seen the ill effects of it, and that I should leave them in 
the morning. Old Fulcher begged me to think better of it, and 
his mother joined w'ith him. They offered, if I would stay, to 
give me Mary Fulcher as a mort, till she and I were old enough 
to be regularly married, she being the daughter of the one, and 


1825.] 


IN BUSINESS. 


255 


the sister of the other. I liked the girl very well, for she had 
always been civil to me, and had a fair complexion and nice red 
hair, both of which I like, being a bit of a black myself ; but I 
refused, being determined to see something more of the world 
than I could hope to do with the Fulchers, and moreover, to live 
honestly, which I could never do along with them. So the next 
morning I left them: I was, as I said before, quite determined 
upon an honest livelihood, and I soon found one. He is a great 
fool who is ever dishonest in England. Any person who has any 
natural gift, and everybody has some natural gift, is sure of finding 
encouragement in this noble country of ours, provided he will but 
exhibit it. I had not walked more than three miles before I came 
to a wonderfully high church steeple, which stood close by the 
road ; I looked at the steeple, and going to a heap of smooth 
pebbles which lay by the roadside, I took up some, and then 
went into the churchyard, and placing myself just below the tower, 
my right foot resting on a ledge, about two feet from the ground, 
I, with my left hand — being a left-handed person, do you see — 
flung or chucked up a stone, which lighting on the top of the 
steeple, which was at least a hundred and fifty feet high, did there 
remain. After repeating this feat two or three times, I ‘ hulled ^ up 
a stone, which went clean over the tower, and then one, my right 
foot still on the ledge, which rising at least five yards above the 
steeple, did fall down just at my feet. Without knowing it, I was 
showing off my gift to others besides myself, doing what, perhaps, 
not five men in England could do. Two men, who were passing 
by, stopped and looked at my proceedings, and when I had done 
flinging came into the churchyard, and, after paying me a compli- 
ment on what they had seen me do, proposed that I should join 
company with them ; I asked them who they were, and they told 
me. The one was Hopping Ned, and the other Biting Giles. 
Both had their gifts, by which they got their livelihood*; Ned 
could hop a hundred yards with any man in England, and Giles 
could lift up with his teeth any dresser or kitchen table in the 
country, and, standing erect, hold it dangling in his jaws. There’s 
many a big oak table and dresser in certain districts of England, 
which bear the marks of Giles’s teeth ; and I make no doubt that, 
a hundred or two years hence, there’ll be strange stories about 
those marks, and that people will point them out as a proof that 
there were giants in bygone time, and that many a dentist will 
moralise on the decays which human teeth have undergone. 

“ They wanted me to go about with them, and exhibit my gift 
occasionally as they did theirs, promising that the money that was 


256 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1S25. 


got by the exhibitions should be honestly divided. I consented, 
and we set off together, and that evening coming to a village, and 
putting up at the ale-house, all the grand folks of the village being 
there smoking their pipes, we contrived to introduce the subject 
of hopping — the upshot being that Ned hopped against the school- 
master for a pound, and beat him hollow ; shortly after, Giles, for 
a wager, took up the kitchen table in his jaws, though he had to 
pay a shilling to the landlady for the marks he left, whose grand- 
children will perhaps get money by exhibiting them. As for 
myself, I did nothing that day, but the next, on which my com- 
panions did nothing, I showed off at hulling stones against a 
cripple, the crack man for stone throwing, of a small town, a few 
miles farther on. Bets were made to the tune of some pounds ; I 
contrived to beat the cripple, and just contrived ; for to do him 
justice, I must acknowledge he was a first-rate hand at stones, 
though he had a game hip, and went sideways ; his head, when 
he walked — if his movements could be called walking — not being 
above three feet above the ground. So we travelled, I and my 
companions, showing off our gifts, Giles and I occasionally for a 
gathering, but Ned never hopping unless against somebody for a 
wager. We lived honestly and comfortably, making no little 
money by our natural endowments, and were known over a great 
part of England as ‘ Hopping Ned,’ ‘ Biting Giles,’ and ‘ Hull over 
the Head Jack,’ which was my name, it being the blackguard 

fashion of the English, do you see, to ” 

Here I interrupted the jockey. “ You may call it a blackguard 
fashion,” said I, “and I dare say it is, or it would scarcely be 
English ; but it is an immensely ^ncient one, and is handed down 
to us from our northern ancestry, especially the Danes, who were 
in. the habit of giving people surnames, or rather nicknames, from 
some quality of body or mind, but generally from some disadvan- 
tageous peculiarity of feature ; for there is no denying that the 
English, Norse, or whatever we may please to call them, are an 
envious, depreciatory set \of people, who not only give their poor 
comrades contemptuous surnames, but their great people also. 
They didn’t call you the matchless Hurler, because, by doing so, 
they would have paid you a compliment, but Hull-over-the-Head 
Jack, as much as to say that after all you were a scrub : so, in 
ancient time, instead of calling Regner the great conqueror, the 
Nation Tamer, they surnamed him Lodbrog, which signifies Rough 
or Hairy Breeks — lod or loddin signifying rough or hairy ; and in- 
stead of complimenting Halgerdr, the wife of Gunnar of Hlitharend, 
the great champion of Iceland, upon her majestic presence, by 


1825.] 


THE THIRD INTERRUPTION. 


257 


calling her Halgerdr, the stately or tall, what must they do but term 
her Ha-brokr, or High-breeks, it being the fashion in old times for 
Northern ladies to wear breeks, or breeches, which English ladies 
of the present day never think of doing ; and just, as of old, they 
called Halgerdr Long-breeks, so this very day a fellow of Horncastle 
called, in my hearing, our noble-looking Hungarian friend here. 
Long-stockings. Oh, I could give you a hundred instances, both 
ancient and modern, of this unseemly propensity of our illustrious 
race, though I will only trouble you with a few more ancient ones ; 
they not only nicknamed Regner, but his sons also, who were all 
kings, and distinguished men ; one, whose name was Biorn, they 
nicknamed Ironsides ; another, Sigurd, Snake in the Eye ; another, 
White Sark, or White Shirt — I wonder they did not call him Dirty 
Shirt ; and Ivarr, another, who was king of Northumberland, they 
called Beinlausi, or the Legless, because he was spindle-shanked, 
had no sap in his bones, and consequently no children. He was 
a great king, it is true, and very wise, nevertheless his blackguard 
countrymen, always averse, as their descendants are, to give credit 
to anybody, for any valuable quality or possession, must needs lay 
hold, do you see ” 

But before I could say any more, the jockey, having laid down 
his pipe, rose, and having taken off his coat, advanced towards 
me. 


17 


CHAPTER XLIL 


The jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, 
as I have stated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry 
tone : “This is the third time you have interrupted me in my tale, 
Mr. Rye ; I passed over the two first times with a simple warning, but 
you will now please to get up and give me the satisfaction of a man 

“ I am really sorry,” said I, “ if I have given you offence, but 
you were talking of our English habit of bestowing nicknames, 
and I could not refrain from giving a few examples tending to 
prove what a very ancient habit it is.” 

“ But you interrupted me,” said the jockey, “ and put me out 
of my tale, which you had no right to do; and as for your 
examples, how do you know that I wasn’t going to give some as 
old or older than yourn? Now, stand up, and I’ll make an 
example of you.” 

“Well,” said I, “I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt 
you, and I ask your pardon.” 

“ That won’t do,” said the jockey, “asking pardon won’t do.” 

“Oh,” said I, getting up, “if asking pardon does not satisfy 
you, you are a different man from what I considered you.” 

But' here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall 
form and pipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, 
“ Let there be no dispute ! As for myself, I am very much 
obliged to the young man of Horncastle for his interruption, 
though he has told me that one of his dirty townsmen called me 
‘ Longstockings ’. By Isten ! there is more learning in what he 
has just said than in all the verdammt English histories of Thor 
and Tzernebock I ever read.” 

“I care nothing for his learning,” said the jockey. “I 
consider myself as good a man as he, for all his learning; so 
stand out of the way, Mr. Sixfoot-eleven or ” ' 

“I shall do no such thing,” said the Hungarian. “ I wonder 
you are not ashamed of yourself. You ask a young man to drink 
champagne with you, you make him dronk, he interrupt you with 
very good sense ; he ask your pardon, yet you not ” 

“Well,” said the jockey, “I am satisfied. . I am rather a 


RECONCILIATION. 


259 


1825.] 


short-tempered person, but I bear no malice. He is, as you say, 
drinking my wine, and has perhaps taken a drop too much, not 
being used to such high liquor ; but one doesn’t like to be put 
out of one’s tale, more especially when one was about to moralise, 
do you see, oneself, and to show off what little learning one has. 
However, I bears no malice. Here is a hand to each of you ; 
we’ll take another glass each, and think no more about it.” 

The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our 
glasses and his own with what champagne remained in the bottle, 
put on his coat, sat down, and resumed his pipe and story. 

“ Where was I ? Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping 
Ned and Biting Giles. Those were happy days, and a merry 
and prosperous life we led. However, nothing continues under 
the sun in the same state in which it begins, and our firm was 
soon destined to undergo a change. We came to a village where 
there was a very high church steeple, and in a little time my 
comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display 
my gift by flinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, 
Luke and John, who stood at the four corners on the top, carved 
in stone. The parson, seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his 
rectory to see what was going on. After I had flung up the 
stones, letting them fall just where I liked — and one, I remember 
fell on the head of Mark, where I daresay it remains to the 
present day — the parson, who was one of the description of people 
called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let the 
next stone I flung up fall into it. He wished, do you see, to 
know with what weight the stone would fall down, and talked 
something about gravitation — a word which I could never under- 
stand to the present day, save that it turned out a grave matter to 
me. I, like a silly fellow myself, must needs consent, and, flinging 
the stone up to a vast height, contrived so that it fell into the 
parson’s hand, which it cut dreadfully. The parson flew into a 
great rage, more particularly as everybody laughed at him, and, 
being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, who was likewise constable, 
to conduct me to prison as a rogue and vagabond, telling my 
comrades that if they did not take themselves off, he would serve 
them in the same manner. So Ned hopped off, and Giles ran 
after him, without making any gathering, and I was led to 
Bridewell, my mittimus following at the end of a week, the 
parson’s hand not permitting him to write before that time. In 
the Bridewell I remained a month, when, being dismissed, I 
went in quest of my companions, whom, after some time, I found 
up, but they refused to keep my company any longer, telling me 


26 o 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more 
trouble than profit ; they had, moreover, filled up my place. 
Going into a cottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country 
fellow making faces to amuse his children ; the faces were so 
wonderful that Hopping Ned and Biting Giles at once proposed 
taking him into partnership, and the man — who was a fellow not 
very fond of work — after a little entreaty, went away with them. 
I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn’t blame the others for 
preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at all times, 
but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing humap. 
He was called Ugly Moses. I was so amazed at his faces, that 
though poor myself I gave him sixpence, which I have never 
grudged to this day, for I never saw anything like them. The 
firm throve wonderfully after he had been admitted into it. He 
died some little time ago, keeper of a public-house, which he had 
been enabled to take from the profits of his faces. A son of his, 
one of the children he was making faces to when my comrades 
entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very rising one. 
He has his gift — he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, but he 
has something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quiet 
grin ; he would not have done to grin through a collar like his 
father, and would nSver have been taken up by Hopping Ned and 
Biting Giles, but that grin of his caused him to be noticed by a 
much greater person than either ; an attorney observing it took a 
liking to the lad, and prophesied that he would some day be 
heard of in the world ; and in order to give him the first lift, took 
him into his office, at first to light fires and do such kind of work, 
and after a little time taught him to write, then promoted him to 
a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried, and without 
children, left him what he had when he died. The young fellow, 
after practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in 
a few years, helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to 
recommend him, he became, as I said before, a rising barrister. 
He comes our circuit, and I occasionally employ him, when I am 
obliged to go to law about such a thing as an unsound horse. 
He generally brings me through — or rather that grin of his does 
— and yet I don’t like the fellow, confound him, but I’m an 
oddity — no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is a 
fellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face 
but with a look which seems to say I am an honest man, and 
what cares I for any one ? And an honest man he is, and 
something more. I have known coves with a better gift of the 
gab, though not many, but he always speaks to the purpose, and 


THE BEST ENDOWMENT. 


261 


1825.] 


understands law thoroughly ; and that’s not all. When at college, 
for he has been at college, he carried off everything before him 
as a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they call matthew 
mattocks. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I have heard that 
he who is first-rate at matthew mattocks is thought more of than 
if he were first-rate Latiner. 

“ Well, the chap that I’m talking about, not only came out 
first-rate Latiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too, doing, in 
fact, as I am told by those who knows, for I was never at college 
myself, what no one had ever done before. Well, he makes his 
appearance at our circuit, does very well, of course, but he has a 
somewhat high front, as becomes an honest man, and one who 
has beat every one at Latin and matthew mattocks ; and who 
can speak first-rate law and sense ; but see now, the cove with 
the grin, who has like myself never been at college, knows no- 
thing, of Latin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift 
of the gab, has two briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, 
for that grin of his curries favour with the juries ; and mark me, 
that grin of his will enable him to beat the other in the long run. 
We all know what all barrister coves looks forward to — a seat on 
the hop sack. Well, I’ll bet a bull to fivepence that the grinner 
gets upon it, and the snarler doesn’t ; at any rate, that he gets 
there first. I calls my cove — for he is my cove — a snarler; 
because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are called snarlers, 
and for no other reason ; for the chap, though with a high front, 
is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, after 
buying an animal out of my stable. I have often thought it a 
pity he wasn’t born with a grin on his face like the son of Ugly 
Moses. It is true he would scarcely then have been an out and 
outer at Latin and matthew mattocks, but what need of either to 
a chap born with a grin? Talk of being born with a silver 
spoon in one's mouth ! give me a cove born with a grin on his 
face — a much better endowment. 

I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have 
talked as much as folks do during a whole night in the Commons’ 
House, though, of course, not with so much learning, or so much 
to the purpose, because — why ? They are in the House of 
Commons, and we in a public room of an inn at Horncastle. 
The goodness of the ale, do ye see, never depending on what 
it is made of, oh, no ! but on the fashion and appearance of the 
jug in which it is served up. After being turned out of the firm, 
I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shall not 
trouble you with describing. I did not like any of them, however, 


the ROMAl^Y RYE. 


262 


[18254 


as they did not exactly suit my humour ; at last I found one which 
did. One Saturday forenoon, I chanced to be in the cattle-market 
of a place about eighty miles from here ; there I won the favour 
of an old gentleman who sold dickeys. He had a very shabby 
squad of animals, without soul or spirit ; nobody would buy them, 
till I leaped upon their hinder ends, and by merely wriggling in a 
particular manner, made them caper and bound so to people’s 
liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold at very 
sufficient prices. The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill, 
that he took me home with him, and in a very little time into 
partnership. It’s a good thing to have a gift, but yet better 
to have two. I might have got a very decent livelihood by throw- 
ing stones, but I much question whether I should ever have 
attained to the position in society which I now occupy, but for 
my knowledge of animals. I lived very comfortably with the old 
gentleman till he died, which he did about a fortnight after 
he had laid his old lady in the ground. Having no children, he 
left me what should remain after he had been buried decently, 
and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings in silver. 
I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time 
I saved a hundred pounds. I then embarked in the horse line. 

One day, being in the market on a Saturday, I saw Mary 

Fulcher with a halter round her neck, led about by a man, who 
offered to sell her for eighteenpence. I took out the money 
forthwith and bought her; the man was her husband, a basket- 
maker, with whom she had lived several years without having any 
children ; he was a drunken, quarrelsome fellow, and having had 
a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid of her, 
by putting a halter round her neck and leading her to the cattle- 
market, as if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right 
to do, all women being considered mares by old English law, 
and, indeed still called mares in certain counties, where genuine 
old English is still preserve^- That same afternoon, the man who 
had been her husband, having got drunk in a public-house, with 
the money which he had received for her, quarrelled with another 
man, and receiving a blow under the ear, fell upon the floor, 
and died of artiflex ; and in less than three weeks I was married 
to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular banns. I am told she was 
legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a 
halter round her neck ; but, to tell you the truth, I think every- 
body should live by his trade, and I didn’t wish to act shabbily 
towards our parson, who is a good fellow, and has certainly a right 
to his fees. A better wife than Mary Fulcher — I mean Mary 


1825.] 


FAIR DEALING. 


263 


Dale — no one ever had ; she has borne me several children, and 
has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me, and to be my 
faithful wife. Amongst other things, I begged her to have done 
with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since. 

“ I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as 
being a person who can be depended on, when folks treats me 
handsomely. I always make a point when a gentleman comes 
to me, and says, ‘Mr. Dale’ or ‘John,’ for I have no objection 
to be called John by a gentleman — ‘ I wants a good horse, and 
I am ready to pay a good price’ — I always makes a point, I say, 
to furnish him with an animal worth the money ; but when I sees 
a fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing 
to circumvent me what does I do ? I doesn’t quarrel with him j 
not I ; but, letting him imagine he is taking me in, I contrives 
to sell him a screw for thirty pounds, not worth thirty shillings. 
All honest, respectable people have at present great confidence in 
me, and frequently commissions me to buy them horses at great 
fairs like this. 

“This short young gentleman was recommended to me by 
a great landed proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommenda- 
tion from some great prince in his own country, who had a long 
time ago been entertained at the house of the landed proprietor, 
and the consequence is, that I brings young six foot six to Horn- 
castle, and purchases for him the horse of the Romany Rye. I 
don’t do these kind things for nothing, it is true ; that can’t be 
expected, for every one must live by his trade; but, as I said 
before, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, 
I have discovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far 
the best policy; though, as I also said before, when I’m 
along with thieves, I can beat them at their own game. If 
I am obliged to do it, I can pass off the veriest screw as a flying 
drummedary, for even when I was a child I had found out 
by various means what may be done with animals. I wish now 
to ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye. Certain folks have 
told me that you are a horse witch ; are you one, or are you not ? ” 

“ I, like yourself,” said I, “ know, to a certain extent, what 
may be done with animals.” 

“ Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest 
screw in the world for a flying drummedary ? ” 

“ By putting a small live eel down his throat ; as long as the 
eel remained in his stomach, the horse-would appear brisk and 
lively in a surprising degree.” 

“And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker 


264 


THE ROMANY RYE, 


• [1825. 


and biter appear so tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old 
gentleman of sixty, who wanted an easy, goer, would be glad 
to purchase him for fifty pounds ? ” 

“ By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, 
which would make him so happy and comfortable, that he would 
not have the heart to kick or bite anybody, for a season at least.” 

“ And where did you learn all this.? ” said the jockey. 

“ I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about 
the making drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, 

I was told the same things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now 
tell me, do you bewitch horses in this way ? ” 

“ I ? ” said the jockey ; “ mercy upon us ! I wouldn’t do such 
things for a hatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels 
and hocussing ! And now let me ask you, how you would spirit 
a horse out of a field ? ” 

“ How would I spirit a horse out of a field? ” 

“ Yes ; supposing you were down in the world, and had deter- 
mined on taking up the horse-stealing line of business.” 

“ Why, I should But I tell you what, friend, I see you 

are trying to pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear 
something from you with respect to your art, before I tell you 
anything more. Now, how would you whisper a horse out of a 
field, provided you were down in the world, and so forth?” 

“ Ah, ah, I see you are up to a game, Mr. Romany ; however, . 
I am a gentleman in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the 
unhandsome thing to anybody who has dealt fairly towards me. 
Now, you told me something I didn’t know, and I’ll tell you 
something which perhaps you do know. I whispers a horse 
out of a field in this way : I have a mare in my stable ; well, in 

the early season of the year I goes into my stable Well, I 

puts the sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked. I 
takes my bottle in my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by 
night, where there is a very fine stag horse. I manage with 
great difficulty to get within ten yards of the horse, who stands 
staring at me just ready to run away. I then uncorks my bottle, 
presses my forefinger to the sponge, and holds it out to the horse, 
the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and comes nearer. I corks 
up my bottle and puts it into my pocket. My business is done, 
for the next two hours the horse would follow me anywhere — 
the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him. Now, is that 
your way of doing business?” 

“ My way of doing business ? Mercy upon us ! I wouldn’t 
steal a horse in that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money 


1825.] 


DARIUS AND CEB A RES. 


265 


in the world ; however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a 
trick somewhat similar is described in the history of Herodotus.” 

“ In the history of Herod’s ass ! ” said the jockey ; “ well, if I 
did write a book, it should be about something more genteel than 
a dickey.” 

“ I did not say Herod’s ass,” said I, “ but Herodotus, a very 
genteel writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel 
people, in a language no less genteel than Greek, more than two 
thousand years ago. There was a dispute as to who should be 
king amongst certain imperious chieftains. At last they agreed 
to obey him whose horse should neigh first on a certain day, in 
front of the royal palace, before the rising of the sun ; for you 
must know that they did not worship the person who made the 
sun as we do, but the sun itself. So one of these chieftains, 
talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered 
who would be king, the fellow said : ‘ Why you, master, or I don’t 
know much about horses ’. So the day before the day of trial, 
what does the groom do, but takes his master’s horse before the 
palace and introduce him to a mare in the stable, and then lead 
him forth again. Well, early the next day all the chieftains on 
their horses appeared in front of the palace before the dawn of 
day. Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of 
him who had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the 
animal within the stable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings 
rang. His rider was forthwith elected king, and a brave king he 
was. So this shows what seemingly wonderful things may be 
brought about by a little preparation.” 

“ It doth,” said the jockey ; “ what was the chap’s name ? ” 

“ His name — his name — Darius Hystaspes.” 

“ And the groom’s ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ And he made a good king ? ” 

“ First-rate.” 

“ Only think ! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful 
king the groom would have made, through whose knowledge of 
’orses he was put on the throne. And now another question 
Mr. Romany Rye, have you particular words which have power 
to soothe or aggravate horses?” 

“You should ask me,” said I, “whether I have horses that 
can be aggravated or soothed by particular words. No words 
have any particular power over horses or other animals who have 
never heard them before — how should they ? But certain animals 
connect ideas of misery or enjoyment with particular words which 


266 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


they are acquainted with. I’ll give you an example. I knew a 
cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of kicking madness 
by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a particular 
tone ; but that word was connected with a very painful operation 
which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had 
frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had 
been under his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a 
moment by another word, used by the same individual in a very 
different kind of tone ; the word was dea^hb/asda, or sweet tasted. 
Some time after the operation, whilst the cob was yet under his 
hands, the fellow — who was what the Irish call a fairy smith — had 
done all he could to soothe the creature, and had at last succeeded 
by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of which the cob became passion- 
ately fond. Invariably, however, before giving it a button, he said, 

‘ Deaghblasda^' with which word the cob by degrees associated an 
idea of unmixed enjoyment : so if he could rouse the cob to 
madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remem- 
brance, he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the 
cob knew would be instantly followed by the button, which the 
smith never failed to give him after using the word deaghblasda'' 
“ There is nothing wonderful to be done,” said the jockey, 
“ without a good deal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks 
stare and wonder at certain things which they would only laugh 
at if they knew how they were done ; and to prove what I say 
is true, I will give you one or two examples. Can either of you 
lend me a handkerchief? That won’t do,” said he, as I presented 
him with a silk one. “ I wish for a delicate white handkerchief. 
That’s just the kind of thing,” said he, as the Hungarian offered 
him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with 
gold at the hems ; “ now you shall see me set this handkerchief 
on fire.” “ Dont let him do so by any means,” said the Hun- 
garian, speaking to me in/German, “it is the gift of a lady whom 
I highly admire, and I would not have it burnt for the world.” 
“ He has no occasion to be under any apprehension,” said the 
jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the Hungarian had 
said, “ I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name is not 
Jack Dale.” Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the 
left side of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time 
had burnt very low, and holding his head back, he applied the 
flame to the handkerchief, which instantly seemed to catch fire. 
“What do you think of that?” said he to the Hungarian. 
“ Why, that you have ruined me,” said the latter. “ No harm 
done, I assure you,” said the jockey, who presently, clapping 


1825.] 


JOCKEY'S TRICKS. 


267 


his hand on his bosom extinguished the fire, and returned the 
handkerchiet to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. “ I 
see no burn upon it,” said the Hungarian ; “ but in the name of 
Gott, how could you set it on fire without burning it?” “I 
never set it on fire at all,” said the jockey ; “ I set this on fire,” 
showing us a piece of half-burnt calico. “ I placed this calico 
above it, and lighted not the handkerchief, but the rag. Now I 
will show you something else. I have a magic shilling in my 
pocket, which I can make run up along my arm. But, first of 
all, I would glady know whether either of you can do the like. 
Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into 
ourTockets, took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them 
run up our arms, but utterly failed ; both shillings, after we had 
made two or three attempts, falling to the ground. “ What 
noncomposses you both are,” said the jockey; and placing a 
shilling on the end of the fingers of his right hand he made 
strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the shilling 
instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and jump- 
ing as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards 
the head of the jockey. 

“How do I do that?” said he, addressing himself to me. 
“I really do not know,” said I, “unless it is by the motion of 
your arm.” “The motion of my nonsense,” said the jockey, 
and, making a dreadful grimace, the shilling hopped upon his 
knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climb up his breast. 
“ How is that done ? ” said he again. “ By witchcraft, I suppose,” 
said I. “ There you are right,” said the jockey ; “ by the witch- 
craft of one of Miss Berners’ hairs ; the end of one of her long 
hairs is tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the 
other end goes round my neck by means of a loop; so that, 
when I draw back my head, the shilling follows it. I suppose 
you wish to know how I got the hair,” said he, grinning at me. 
“ I will tell you. I once, in the course of my ridings, saw Miss 
Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long hair, and, being 
rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get off my 
horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter 
into conversation with her. After giving her the sele of the day, 
and complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one 
of the threads ; whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling 
me fellow, told me to take myself off. ‘ I must have a hair first,’ 
said I, making a snatch at one. I believe I hurt her; but, 
whether I did or not, up she started, and, though her hair was 
unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had in my life. Lor ! 


26^ THE ROMANY RYE. [1825* 


how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held me round 
the neck with her left arm ; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on 
my knees, which she gave me in a moment, when she saw me in 
that condition, being the most placable creature in the world, and 
not only her pardon, but one of the hairs which I longed for, 
which I put through a shilling, with which I have on evenings 
after fairs, like this, frequently worked what seemed to those who 
looked on downright witchcraft, but which is nothing more than 
pleasant deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to testify my 
regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair. I think you 
have a kind of respect for Miss Berners ; but whether you have or 
not, keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them 
think of the finest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey 
of Horncastle. I believe I have told you my history,” said he — 
“no, not quite; there is one circumstance I had passed over. I 
told you that I have thriven very well in business, and so I have, 
upon the whole : at any rate, I find myself cornfortably off now. 
I have horses, money, and owe nobody a groat; at any rate, nothing 
but what I could pay to-morrow. Yet I have had my dreary day, 
ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in the world. All of 
a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to go wrong with 
me — horses became sick or died, people who owed me money 
broke or ran away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went 
against me; and not from any mismanagement of my own. I 
looked round for help, but — what do you think ? — nobody would 
help me. Somehow or other it had got abroad that I was in 
difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to avoid me, as if I 
had got the plague. Those who were always offering me help 
when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble, 
talked of arresting me. Yes ; two particular friends of mine, who 
had always been offering me their purses when my own was stuffed 
full, now talked of arresting me, though I only owed the scoun- 
drels a hundred pounds each ; and they would have done so, 
provided I had not paid them what I owed them ; and how did 
I do that ? Why, I was able to do it because I found a friend 
— and who was that friend? Why, a man who has since been 
hung, of whom everybody has heard, and of whom everybody for 
the next hundred years will occasionally talk. 

“ One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had 
occasionally met at sporting dinners. He came to look after a 
Suffolk Punch, the best horse, by-the-bye, that anybody can 
purchase to drive, it being the only animal of the horse kind in 
England that will pull twice at a dead weight. I told him that I 


1825.] 


THURTELL AT HERTFORD. 


269 


had none at that time that I could recommend ; in fact, that every 
horse in my stable was sick. He then invited me to dine with 
him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the hope 
of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner, during which 
he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, 
he asked me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being 
opened by the wine he had made me drink, told him my circum- 
stances without reserve. With an oath or two for not having 
treated him at first like a friend, he said he would soon set me all 
right ; and pulling out two hundred pounds, told me to pay him 
when I could. I felt as I never felt before ; however, I took his 
notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was right 
again, and had returned him his money. On paying it to him, I 
said that I had now a Punch which would just suit him, saying 
that I would give it to him — a free gift — for nothing. He swore 
at me, telling me to keep my Punch, for that he was suited 
already. I begged him to tell me how I could requite him for 
his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadful oath I ever heard, 
he bade me come and see him hanged when his time was come. 
I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word. 

The night before the day he was hanged at H , I harnessed a 

Suffolk Punch to my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered 
to him, which I have ever since kept, and which brought me and 
this short young man to Horncastle, and in eleven hours I drove 

that Punch one hundred and ten miles. I arrived at H just 

in the nick of time. There was the ugly jail, the scaffold, and 
there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in the world. 
Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of the 
crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I 
stood up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted : ‘ God Almighty 
bless you. Jack ! The dying man turned his pale grim face to- 
wards me — for his face was always somewhat grim, do you see 
— nodded and said, or I thought I heard him say : ‘ All right 

old chap’. The next moment my eyes water. He had a 

high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines, lost his half- 
pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the throat of a 
villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he had 
good qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the 
bad things laid to his charge ; for example, he never bribed Tom 
Oliver to fight cross, as it was said he did on the day of the awful 
thunder-storm. Ned Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though 
Ned was not what’s called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, 
which if he could put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder. 


270 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


do you see, was two inches farther back than it ought to have 
been, and consequently his right fist generally fell short; but if 
he could swing himself round, and put in a blow with that right 
arm, he could kill or take away the senses of anybody in the 
world. It was by putting in that blow in his second fight with 
Spring that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack in 
the first battle, but in the second Ned Painter — for that was his 
real name — contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of 
Spring ; and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver. 

“Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and 
many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who 
are. Jack, with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow 
of a lord, who wanted to get the horse from you at about two- 
thirds of his value, without a single good quality in the world, is 
not hanged, and probably will remain so. You ask the reason 
why, perhaps. I’ll tell you ; the lack of a certain quality called 
courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him ; 
from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing 
which can bring him to the gallows. In my rough way I’ll draw 
their characters from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack 
was not the best character of the two. Jack was a rough, audacious 
boy, fond of fighting, going a birds’-nesting, but I never heard he 
did anything particularly cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister 
to a butcher’s dog’s tail ; whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature 
a savage beast, and when a boy would in winter pluck poor fowls 
naked, and set them running on the ice and in the snow, and was 
particularly fond of burning cats alive in the fire. Jack, when a 
lad, gets a commission on board a ship as an officer of horse marines, 
and in two or three engagements behaves quite up to the mark — 
at least of a marine, the marines having no particular character 
for courage, you know — never having run to the guns and fired 
them like madmen after the blue jackets had had more than 
enough. Oh, dear me, no ! My lord gets into the valorous British 
army, where cowardice — oh, dear me ! — is a thing almost entirely 
unknown ; and being on the field of Waterloo the day before the 
battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending to be hurt in the back, 
gets himself put on the sick list — a pretty excuse — hurting his 
back — for not being present at such a fight. Old Benbow, after 
part of both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight, made the 
carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and con- 
tinued on deck, cheering his men till he died. Jack returns home, 
and gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by but his 
wits, gets his living by the ring, and the turf, and gambling, doing 


1825.] 


THE TWO CHARACTERS. 


271 


many an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to 
his charge. My lord does much the same without the excuse for 
doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and 
a black, only in a more polished way, and with more cunning, and 
I may say success, having done many a rascally thing never laid to 
his charge. Jack at last cuts the throdt of a villain who had cheated 
him of all he had in the world, and who, I am told, was in many 
points the counterpart of this screw and white feather, is taken up, 
tried, and executed ; and certainly taking away a man’s life is a 
dreadful thing ; but is their nothing as bad ? Whitefeather will 
cut no person’s throat — I will not say who has cheated him, for, 
being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobody cheats 
him, but he’ll do something quite as bad ; out of envy to a person 
who never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever 
and respected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by 
backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a mortal 
injury. But Jack is hanged, and my lord is not. Is that right ? 
My wife, Mary Fulcher — I beg her pardon, Mary Dale — who is 
a Methodist, and has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams, 
says some people are preserved from hanging by the grace of God. 
With her I differs, and says it is from want of courage. This 
Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack’s courage, and with one 
tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago, for 
he has ten times Jack’s malignity. Jack was hanged because, 
along with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity ; this 
fellow is not, because with all Jack’s bad qualities, and many more, 
amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. 
Think of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to 
relieve a distressed fellow-creature ; why he would rob, but for the 
law and the fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, 
as the saying is — and has been heard to say that he would not 
trust his own father for sixpence, and he can’t imagine why such 
a thing as credit should be ever given. I never heard a person 
give him a good word — stay, stay, yes ! I once heard an old parson, 
to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of receiving com- 
pany gracefully and dismissing them without refreshment. I don’t 
wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of 
that compliment. Well ! he manages to get on, whilst Jack is 
hanged ; not quite enviably, however ; he has had his rubs, and 
pretty hard ones — everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo, and 
occasionally checks him with so doing ; whilst he has been rejected 
by a woman — what a mortification to the low pride of which the 
scoundrel has plenty ! There’s a song about both circumstances. 


272 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It’s a funny 
kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant or Deputy, 
and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it’s 
past one.” The jockey then, wnth a very tolerable voice, sung the 
following song : — 

THE JOCKEY’S SONG. 

Now list to a ditty both funny and true ! — 

Merrily moves the dance along — 

A ditty that tells of a coward and screw, 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all, — 

Merrily moves the dance along — 

Had yet resolution to go to a ball, 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

“ Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle ? ” — 

Merrily moves the dance along ; — 

Said she, “ Sir, to dance I should like very well,” 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

They danc’d to the left, and they danc’d to the right, — 

Merrily moves the dance along ; — 

And her troth the fair damsel bestow’d on the knight. 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

“ Now, what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle ? ” — 

Merrily moves the dance along ; — 

Said she, “ Sir, an ice I should like very well,” 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

But the ice, when he’d got it, he instantly ate, — 

Merrily moves the dance along ; — 

Although his poor partner was all in a fret. 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord, — 

Merrily moves the dance along ; — 

For he saw ’t was the very last ice on the board, 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

“ Now, when shall we marry ? ” the gentleman cried ; — 

Merrily moves the dance along ; — 

“ Sir, get you to Jordan,” the damsel replied. 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

“ I never will wed with the pitiful elf” — 

Merrily moves the dance along — 

“ Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself,” 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 

” I’d pardon your backing from red Waterloo,” — 

Merrily moves the dance along — 

“ But I never will wed with a coward and screw,” 

My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. 


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CHAPTER XLIII. 


The next morning I began to think of departing; I had sewed 
up the money which I had received for the horse in a portion 
of my clothing, where I entertained no fears for its safety, with 
the exception of a small sum in notes, gold and silver, which 
I carried in my pocket. Ere departing, however, I determined 
to stroll about and examine the town, and observe more particularly 
the humours of the fair than I had hitherto an opportunity 
of doing. The town, when I examined it, offered no object 
worthy of attention but its church — an edifice of some antiquity ; 
under the guidance of an old man, who officiated as sexton, 
I inspected its interior attentively, occasionally conversing with 
niy guide, who, however, seemed much more disposed to talk 
about horses than the church. “ No good horses in the fair this 
time, measter,” said he ; “none but one brought hither by a chap 
whom nobody knows, and bought by a foreigneering man, who 
came here with Jack Dale. The horse fetched a good swinging 
price, which is said, however, to be much less than its worth ; 
for the horse is a regular clipper ; not such a one ’tis said, has 
been seen in the fair for several summers. Lord Whitefeather 
says that he believes the fellow who brought him to be a highway- 
man, and talks of having him taken up, but Lord Whitefeather 
is only in a rage because he could not get him for himself. The 
chap would not sell it to un ; Lord Screw wanted to beat him 
down, and the chap took huff, said he wouldn’t sell it to him at no 
price, and accepted the offer of the foreigneering man, or of Jack, 
who was his ’terpreter, and who scorned to higgle about such an 
hanimal, because Jack is a gentleman, though bred a dickey-boy, 
whilst ’tother, though bred a Lord, is a screw and a whitefeather. 
Every one says the cove was right, and I says so too; I likes 
spirit, and if the cove were here, and in your place, measter, 
I would invite him to drink a pint of beer. Good horses are scarce 
now, measter, ay, and so are good men, quite a different set from 
what there were when I was young ; that was the time for men 
and horses. Lord bless you, I know all the breeders about here ; 
they are not a bad set, and they breed a very fairish set of horses, 

(273) 18 


274 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


but they are not like what their fathers were, nor are their horses 

like their fathers’ horses. Now there is Mr , the great breeder, 

a very fairish man, with very fairish horses ; but. Lord bless you, 
he’s nothing to what his father was, nor his steeds to his father’s ; 
I ought to know, for I was at the school here with his father, and 
afterwards for many a year helped him to get up his horses ; that 
was when I was young, measter — those were the days. You look 
at that monument, measter,” said he, as I stopped and looked 
attentively at a monument on the southern side of the church 
near the altar ; “ that was put up for a rector of this church, who 
lived a long time ago, in Oliver’s time, and was ill-treated and 
imprisoned by Oliver and his men ; you will see all about it on 
the monument. There was a grand battle fought nigh this place, 
between Oliver’s men and the Royal party, and the Royal party 
had the worst of it, as I’m told they generally had ; and Oliver’s 
men came into the town, and did a great deal of damage, and 
ill-treated the people. I can’t remember anything about the 
matter myself, for it happened just one hundred years before 
I was born, but my father was acquainted with an old countryman, 
who lived not many miles from here, who said he remembered 
perfectly well the day of the battle ; that he was a boy at the 
time, and was working in a field near the place where the battle 
was fought, and he heard shouting and noise of firearms, and also 
the sound of several balls, which fell in the field near him. Come 
this way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day’s 
field.” Leaving the monument, on which was inscribed an account 
of the life and sufferings of the Royalist Rector of Horncastle, 
I followed the sexton to the western end of the church, where, 
hanging against the wall, were a number of scythes stuck in the 
ends of poles. “ Those are the weapons, measter,” said the sexton, 
“ which the great people put into the hands of a number of the 
country folks, in order that they might use them against Oliver’s 
men ; ugly weapons enough ; however, Oliver’s men won, and Sir 
Jacob Ashley and his party were beat. And a rare time Oliver 
and his men had of it, till Oliver died, when the other party got 
the better, not by fighting, ’tis said, but through a General Monk, 
who turned sides. Ah, the old fellow that my father knew said 
he well remembered the time when General Monk went over 
and proclaimed Charles the Second. Bonfires were lighted every- 
where, oxen roasted, and beer drunk by pailfuls ; the country 
folks were drunk with joy, and something else ; sung scurvy songs 
about Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks, and pelted his men, 
wherever they found them, with stones and dirt.” “The more 


THE CHURCH. 


275 


1835.] 


ungrateful scoundrels they,” said I. “Oliver and his men fought 
the battle of English independence against a wretched king 
and corrupt lords. Had I been living at the time, I should have 
been proud to be a trooper of Oliver.” “ You would, measter, 
would you ? Well, I never quarrels with the opinions of people 
who jCome to look at the church, and certainly independence 
is' a fine thing. I like to see a chap of an independent spirit, 
and if I were now to see the cove who refused to sell his horse 
to my Lord Screw and Whitefeather, and let Jack Dale have him, 
I would offer to treat him to a pint of beer — e’es, I would, verily. 
Well, measter, you have now seen the church, and all there’s in it 
worth seeing — so I’ll just lock up, and go and finish digging 
the grave I was about when you came, after which I must go into 
the fair to see how matters are going on. Thank ye, measter,” 
said^he, as I put something into his hand ; “ thank ye kindly ; ’tis 
not every one who gives me a shilling now-a-days who comes 
to see the church, but times are very different from what they 
were when I was young ; I was not sexton then, but something 

better ; helped Mr. with his horses, and got many a broad 

crown. Those were the days, measter, both for men and horses; 
and I say, measter, if men and horses were so much better when 
I was young than they are now, what, I wonder, must they have 
been in the time of Oliver and his men ? ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


Leaving the church, I strolled through the fair, looking at the 
horses, listening to the chaffering of the buyers and sellers, and 
occasionally putting in a word of my own, which was not always 
received with much deference ; suddenly, however, on a whisper 
arising that I was the young cove who 'had brought the wonderful 
horse to the fair which Jack Dale had bought for the foreigneering 
man, I found myself an object of the greatest attention ; those 
who had before replied with stuff ! and nonsense ! to what I said, 
now listened with the greatest eagerness to any nonsense which I 
chose to utter, and I did not fail to utter a great deal ; presently, 
however, becoming disgusted with the beings about me, I forced my 
way, not very civilly, through my crowd of admirers ; and passing 
through an alley and a back street, at last reached an outskirt 
of the fair, where no person appeared to know me. Here I stood, 
looking vacantly on what was going on, musing on the strange 
infatuation of my species, who judge of a person’s words, not from 
their intrinsic merit, but from the opinion — generally an erroneous 
one — which they have formed of the person. From this reverie 
I was roused by certain words which sounded near me, uttered 
in a strange tone, and in a strange cadence — the words were, 
“ them that finds, wins ; and them that can’t find, loses”. Turn- 
ing my eyes in the direction from which the words proceeded, 
I saw six or seven people, apparently all countrymen, gathered 
round a person standing behind a tall white table of very small 

compass. “ What ! ” said I, “ the thimble-engro of Fair here 

at Horncastle.” Advancing nearer, however, I perceived that 
though the present person was a thimble-engro, he was a very differ- 
ent one from my old acquaintance of Fair. The present one 

was a fellow about half a foot taller than the other. He had a 
long, haggard, wild face, and was dressed in a kind of jacket, 
something like that of a soldier, with dirty hempen trousers, and 
with a foreign-looking peaked hat on his head. He spoke with 
an accent evidently Irish, and occasionally changed the usual 
thimble formule into, “them that finds, wins, and them that can’t 
— och, sure ! — they loses ” ; saying also frequently, “ your honour,” 


1825.] 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


277 


instead of “my lord”. I observed, on drawing nearer, that he 
handled the pea and thimble with some awkwardness, like that 
which might be expected from a novice in the trade. He contrived, 
however, to win several shillings, for he did not seem to play for 
gold, from “ their honours Awkward as he was, he evidently 
did his best, and never flung a chance away by permitting any 
one to win. He had just won three shillings from a farmer, who, 
incensed at his loss, was calling him a confounded cheat, and 
saying that he would play no more, when up came my friend of 
the preceding day. Jack, the jockey. This worthy, after looking 
at the thimble-man' a moment or two, with a peculiarly crafty 
glance, cried out, as he clapped down a shilling on the table, “ I 
will stand you, old fellow !” “ Them that finds, wins ; and them 

that can’t — och, sure !— they loses,” said the thimble-man. The 
game commenced, and Jack took up the thimble without finding 
the pea; another shilling was produced, and lost in the same 
manner: “this is slow work,” said Jack, banging down a guinea 
on the table; “can you cover that, old fellow?” The man of 
the thimble looked at the gold, and then at him who produced it, 
and scratched his head. “Come, cover that, or I shall be off,” 
said the jockey. “Och, sure, my lord ! — no, I mean your honour 
— no, sure, your lordship,” said the other, “ if I covers it at all, it 
must be with silver, for divil a bit of gold have I by me.” “Well, 
then, produce the ‘value in silver,” said the jockey, “and do it 
quickly, for I can’t be staying here all day.” The thimble-man 
hesitated, looked at Jack with a dubious look, then at the gold, and 
then scratched his head. There was now a laugh amongst the 
surrounders, which evidently nettled the fellow, who forthwith 
thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulling out all his silver 
treasure, just contrived to place the value of the guinea on the 
table. “Them that finds, wins, and them that can’t find — loses, 
interrupted Jack, lifting up a thimble, out of which rolled a pea. 
“ There, paddy, what do you think of that ? ” said he, seizing 
the heap of silver with one hand, w'hilst he pocketed the guinea 
with the other. The thimble-engro stood, for some time, like one 
transfixed, his eyes glaring wildly, now at the table, and now at 
his successful customer ; at last he said : “ Arrah, sure, master ! 
— no, I manes my lord — you are not going to ruin a poor boy ! ” 
“Ruin you!” said the other; “what! by winning a guinea’s 
change? a pretty small dodger you — if you have not sufficient 
capital, why do you engage in so deep a trade as thimbling ? come, 
will you stand another game ? ” “ Och, sure, master, no ! the 

twenty shillings and one which you have chated me of were all 


278 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


I had in the world.” ** Cheated you,” said Jack, “ say that again, 
and I will knock you down.” “ Arrah ! sure, master, you knows 
that the pea under the thimble was not mine; here is mine, 
master; now give me back my money.” “A likely thing,” said 
Jack ; “ no, no, I know a trick worth two or three of that ; 
whether the pea was yours or mine, you will never have your 
twenty shillings and one again ; and if I have ruined you, all the 
better ; I’d gladly ruin all such villains as you, who ruin poor men 
with your dirty tricks, whom you would knock down and rob 
on the road, if you had but courage : not that I mean to keep 
your shillings, with the exception of the two you cheated from me, 
which I’ll keep. A scramble, boys ! a scramble ! ” said he, flinging 
up all the silver into the air, with the exception of the two shillings ; 
and a scramble there instantly was, between the rustics who had 
lost their money and the urchins who came running up ; the poor 
thimble-engro tried likewise to have his share ; but though he 
flung himself down, in order to join more effectually in the scramble, 
he was unable to obtain a single sixpence ; and having in his rage 
given some of his fellow-scramblers a cuff or two, he was set upon 
by the boys and country fellows, and compelled to make an in- 
glorious retreat with his table, which had been flung down in the 
scuffle, and had one of its legs broken. As he retired, the rabble 
hooted, and Jack, holding up in derision the pea with which he 
had out-manoeuvred him, exclaimed : “ I always carry this in my 
pocket in order to be a match for vagabonds like you ”. 

The tumult over. Jack gone, and the rabble dispersed, I 
followed the discomfited adventurer at a distance, who, leaving 
the town, went slowly on, carrying his dilapidated piece of 
furniture, till coming to an old wall by the roadside, he placed it 
on the ground, and sat down, seemingly in deep despondency, 
holding his thumb to his mouth. Going nearly up to him, I 
stood still, whereupon he looked up, and perceiving I was looking 
steadfastly at him, he said, in a angry tone : “ Arrah ! what for are 
you staring at me so ? By my shoul, I think you are one of the 
thaives who are after robbing me. I think I saw you among 
them, and if I were only sure of it, I would take the liberty of 
trying to give you a big bating.” “ You have had enough of trying 
to give people a beating,” said I ; “ you had better be taking your 
table to some skilful carpenter to get it repaired. He will do it 
for sixpence.” “ Divil a sixpence did you and your thaives leave 
me,” said he ; “ and if you do not take yourself off, joy, I will be 
breaking your ugly head with the foot of it.” “ Arrah, Murtagh ! ” 
sgid I, “ would ye be breaking the head of your friend and scholar. 


THE TALE OF FINN. 


279 


1825.] 


to whom you taught the blessed tongue of Oilien nan Naomha, in 
exchange for a pack of cards ? ” Murtagh, for he it was, gazed at 
me for a moment with a bewildered look ; then, with a gleam of 
intelligence in his eye, he said : “ Shorsha ! no, it can’t be — yes, 
by my faith it is ! ” Then, springing up and seizing me by the 
hand, he said : “ Yes, by the powers, sure enough it is Shorsha 
agra ! Arrah, Shorsha ! where have you been this many a day ? 
Sure, you are not one of the spalpeens who are after robbing me ? ” 
“Not I,” I replied, “but I saw all that happened. Come, you 
must not take matters so to heart ; cheer up ; such things will 
happen in connection with the trade you have taken up.” 
“ Sorrow befall the trade, and the thief who taught it me,” said 
Murtagh ; “ and yet the trade is not a bad one, if I only knew 
more of it, and had some one to help and back me. Och ! the 
idea of being cheated and bamboozled by that one-eyed thief in 
the horseman’s dress.” “ Let bygones be bygones, Murtagh,” said 
I ; “ it is no use grieving for the past ; sit down, and let us have a 
little pleasant gossip. Arrah, Murtagh ! when I saw you sitting 
under the wall, with your thumb to your mouth, it brought to my 
mind tales which you used to tell me all about Finn-ma-Coul. You 
have not forgotten Finn-ma-Coul, Murtagh, and how he sucked 
wisdom out of his thumb.” “ Sorrow a bit have I forgot about him, 
Shorsha,” said Murtagh, as we sat down together, “nor what you 
yourself told me about the snake. Arrah, Shorsha ! what ye told 
me about the snake bates anything I ever told you about Finn. 
Ochone, Shorsha ! perhaps you will be telling me about the snake 
once more? I think the tale would do me good, and I have need 
of comfort, God knows, ochone ! ” Seeing Murtagh in such a 
distressed plight, I forthwith told him over again the tale of the 
snake, in precisely the same words as I have related it in the first 
part of this history. After which, I said : “Now, Murtagh, tit for 
tat ; ye will be telling me one of the old stories of Finn-ma-Coul ”. 
“ Och, Shorsha ! I haven’t heart enough,” said Murtagh. “ Thank 
you for your tale, but it makes me weep; it brings to my mind 
Dungarvon times of old — I mean the times we were at school 
together.” “Cheer up, man,” said I, “and let’s have the story, 
and let it be about Ma-Coul and the salmon and his thumb.” 
“Arrah, Shorsha! I can’t. Well, to oblige you, I’ll give it you. 
Well, you know Ma-Coul was an exposed child, and came float- 
ing over the salt sea in a chest which was cast ashore at Veintry 
Bay. In the corner of that bay was a castle, where dwelt a giant 
and his wife, very respectable and dacent people, and this giant, 
taking his morning walk along the bay, came to the place where 


28 o 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


the child had been cast ashore in his box. Well, the giant looked 
at the child, and being filled with compassion for his exposed state, 
took the child up in his box, and carried him home to his castle, 
where he and his wife, being dacent respectable people, as I telled 
ye before, fostered the child and took care of him, till he became 
old enough to go out to service and gain his livelihood, when they 
bound him out apprentice to another giant, who lived in a castle 
up the country, at some distance from the bay. 

“ This giant, whose name was Darmod David Odeen, was not 
a respectable person at all, but a big ould wagabone. He was 
twice the size of the other giant, who, though bigger than any 
man, was not a big giant ; for, as there are great and small men, 
so there are great and small giants — I mean some are small when 
compared with the others. Well, Finn served this giant a con- 
siderable time, doing all kinds of hard and unreasonable service 
for him, and receiving all kinds of hard words, and many a hard 
knock and kick to boot — sorrow befall the ould wagabone who 
could thus ill-treat a helpless foundling. It chanced that one 
day the giant caught a salmon, near a salmon-leap upon his 
estate — for, though a big ould blackguard, he was a person of 
considerable landed property, and high sheriff for the county 
Cork. Well, the giant brings home the salmon by the gills, and 
delivers it to Finn, telling him to roast it for the giant’s dinner; 
‘ but take care, ye young blackguard,’ he added, ‘ that in roasting 
it — and I expect ye to roast it well — you do not let a blister come 
upon its nice satin skin, for if ye do, I will cut the head off your 
shoulders’. ‘Well,’ thinks Finn, ‘this is a hard task; however, 
as I have done many hard tasks for him, I will try and do this 
too, though I was never set to do anything yet half so difficult.’ 
So he prepared his fire, and put his gridiron upon it, and lays the 
salmon fairly and softly upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, 
turning it from one side to the other just in the nick of time, 
before the soft satin skin could be blistered. However, on 
turning it over the eleventh time — and twelve would have settled 
the business — he found he had delayed a little bit of time too long 
in turning it over, and that there was a small, tiny blister on the 
soft outer skin. Well, Finn was in a mighty panic, remembering 
the threats of the ould giant ; however, he did not lose heart, but 
clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down. 
Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh 
thoroughly hot, so Finn’s thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his 
mouth, sucked it, in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment 
— hubbuboo ! — becanae inabued with all the wisdona of the world, 


1825.] 


FINN AND SIGURD. 


281 


Myself, Stop, Murtagh ! stop ! 

Murtagh, All the witchcraft, Shorsha. 

Myself. How wonderful ! 

Murtagh. Was it not, Shorsha? The salmon, do you see, 
was a fairy salmon. 

Myself. What a strange coincidence ! 

Murtagh. A what, Shorsha? 

Myself. Why, ^ that the very same tale should be told of 
Finn-ma-Coul which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane. 

“ What thief was that, Shorsha ? ” 

“ Thief ! ’Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir. Sigurd was 
the hero of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great hero of 
Ireland. He, too, according to one account, was an exposed 
child, and came floating in a casket to a wild shore, where he 
was suckled by a hind, and afterwards found and fostered by 
Mimir, a fairy blacksmith ; he, too, sucked wisdom from a burn. 
According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling of the 
heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his 
mouth in order to.suck out the pain, became imbued with all the 
wisdom of the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and 
what not. I have heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times 
in the blessed days of old, but its identity with the tale of Sigurd 
never occurred to me till now. It is true, when I knew you of 
old, I had never read the tale of Sigurd, and have since almost 
dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind ; but as soon as you 
told me again about Finn’s burning his finger, the coincidence 
struck me. I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the Danes ” 

“ Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except 
many a bloody bating and plundering, which they never paid 
them back. Och, Shorsha ! you, edicated in ould Ireland, to say 
that the Irish owes anything good to the plundering villains — the 
Siol Loughlinl^ 

“ They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst 
others, Finn-ma-Coul and the burnt finger ; and if ever I publish 
the Loughlin songs. I’ll tell the world so.” 

“ But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye — to say nothing 
of the Irish part of it.” 

“ Then the world, Murtagh — to say nothing of the Irish part 
of it — will be a fool, even as I have often thought it ; the grand 
thing, Murtagh, is to be able to believe oneself, and respect one- 
self. How few whom the world believes believe and respect 
themselves.” 

“ Och, Shorsha | shall I go on with the tale of Finn ? ” 


282 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


“ I’d rather you should not, Murtagh, I know all about 
already.” 

“Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha? 
Och, it was doing my ownself good, and making me forget my 
own sorrowful, state, when ye interrupted me with your thaives 
of Danes ! Och, Shorsha ! let me tell you how Finn, by means 
of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he imbibed from it, 
contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone, Darmod 
David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him — for Finn could 
do no feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as 
Conan the Bald told the son of Oisin in the song which I used 
to sing ye in Dungarvon times of old ; ” and here Murtagh 
repeated certain Irish words to the following effect : — 

O little the foolish words I heed 
O Oisin’ s son, from thy lips which come ; 

No strength were in Finn for valorous deed, 

Unless to the gristle he suck’d his thumb. 

“ Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh, I am no longer in 
the cue for Finn. I would rather hear your own history. Now 
tell us, man, all that has happened to ye since Dungarvon times 
of old?” 

“ Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows 
back upon me ! ” 

“Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to 
find a help for them. I owe you much, Murtagh ; you taught me 
Irish, and I will do all I can to help you.” 

“ Why, then, Shorsha, I’ll tell ye my history. Here goes ! ” 


CHAPTER XLV. 


“ Well, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us — and 
a sorrowful hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, 
your funny stories of your snake, and the battles of your military 
— they sent me to Paris and Salajnanca, in order to make a sag- 
gari of me.” 

“Pray excuse me,” said I, “for interrupting you, but what kind 
of place is Salamanca ? ” 

“ Divil a bit did I ever see of it, Shorsha ! ” 

“ Then why did you say ye were sent there ? Well, what kind 
of place is Paris ? Not that I care much about Paris.” 

“ Sorrow a bit did I ever see of either of them, Shorsha, for no 
one sent me to either. When we says at home a person is going 
to Paris and Salamanca, it manes that he is going abroad to study 
to be a saggart, whether he goes to them places or not. No, I 
never saw either — bad luck to them — I was shipped away from 
Cork up the straits to a place called Leghorn, from which I was 

sent to to a religious house, where I was to be instructed in 

saggarting till they had made me fit to cut a dacent figure in 
Ireland. We had a long and tedious voyage, Shorsha ; not so 
tedious, however, as it would have been had I been fool enough 
to lave your pack of cards behind me, as the thaif, my brother 
Denis, wanted to persuade me to do, in order that he might 
play with them himself. With the cards I managed to have 
many a nice game with the sailors, winning from them ha’pennies 
and sixpences until the captain said that I was ruining his men, 
and keeping them from their duty; and being a heretic and a 
Dutchman, swore that unless I gave over he would tie me up to 
the mast and give me a round dozen. This threat obliged me to 
be more on my guard, though I occasionally contrived to get a 
game at night, and to win sixpennies and ha’pennies. 

“ We reached Leghorn at last, and glad I was to leave the ship 
and the master, who gave me a kick as I was getting over the side, 
bad luck to the dirty heretic for kicking a son of the Church, for 
I have always been a true son of the Church, Shorsha, and never 
quarrelled with it unless it interfered with me in my playing at 

(283) 


284 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


cards. I left Leghorn with certain muleteers, with whom I played 
at cards at the baiting-houses, and who speedily won from me all 
the ha’pennies and sixpences I had won from the sailors. I got 
my money’s worth, however, for I learnt from the muleteers all 
kind of quaint tricks upon the cards, which I knew nothing of 
before ; so I did not grudge them what they chated me of, 
and when we parted we did so in kindness on both sides. On 

getting to I was received into the religious house for Irishes. 

It was the Irish house, Shorsha, into which I was taken, for I do 
not wish ye to suppose that I was in the English religious house 
which there is in that city, in which a purty set are edicated, and 
in which purty doings are going on if all tales be true. 

“ In this Irish house I commenced my studies, learning to 
sing and to read the Latin prayers of the Church. ’Faith, Shor- 
sha, many’s the sorrowful day I passed in that house learning the 
prayers and litanies, being half-starved, with no earthly diversion 
at all, at all, until I took the cards out of my chest and began 
instructing in card-playing the chum which I had with me in the 
cell ; then I had plenty of diversion along with him during the 
times when I was not engaged in singing, and chanting, and’ 
saying the prayers of the Church ; there was, however, some draw- 
back in playing with my chum, for though he was very clever in 
learning, divil a sixpence had he to play with, in which respect he 
was like myself, the master who taught him, who had lost all my 
money to the muleteers who taught me the tricks upon the cards ; 
by degrees, however, it began to be noised about the religious 
house that Murtagh from Hibrodary,* had a pack of cards with 
which he played with his chum in the cell ; whereupon other 
scholars of the religious house came to me, some to be taught 
and others to play, so with some I played, and others I taught, 
but neither to those who could play, or to those who could not, 
did I teach the elegant tricks which I learnt from the muleteers. 
Well, the scholars came to me for the sake of the cards, and the 
porter and the cook of the religious house, who could both play 
very well, came also ; at last I became tired of playing for nothing, 
so I borrowed a few bits of silver from the cook, and played 
against the porter, and by means of my tricks I won money from 
the porter and then I paid the cook the bits of silver which I 
had borrowed of him, and played with him, and won a little of 
his money, which I let him win back again, as I had lived long 
enough in a religious house to know that it is dangerous to take 


Tipperary, 


1825.] 


MURTAGH’S ^RAVELS. 


285 


money from the cook. In a little time, Shorsha, there was 
scarcely anything going on in the house but card-playing; the 
almoner played with me, and so did the sub-rector, and I won 
money from both ; not too much, however, lest they should tell 
the rector, who had the character of a very austere man and of 
being a bit of a saint ; however, the thief of a porter, whose 
money I had won, informed the rector of what was going on, 
and one day the rector sent for me into his private apartment, 
and gave me so long and pious a lecture upon the heinous sin of 
card-playing, that 1 thought I should sink into the ground ; after 
about half an hour’s inveighing against card-playing, he began to 
soften his tone, and with a long sigh told me that at one time of 
his life he had been a young man himself, and had occasionally 
used the cards ; he then began to ask me some questions about 
card-playing, which questions I afterwards found were to pump 
from me what I knew about the science. After a time he asked me 
whether I had got my cards with me, and on my telling him I 
had, he expressed a wish to see them, whereupon I took the pack 
out of my pocket, and showed it to him ; he looked at it very 
attentively, and at last, giving another deep sigh, he said : that 
though he was nearly weaned from the vanities of the world, he 
had still an inclination to see whether he had entirely lost the 
little skill which at one time he possessed. When I heard him 
speak in this manner, I told him that if his reverence was inclined 
for a game of cards, I should be very happy to play one with him ; 
scarcely had I uttered these words than he gave a third sigh, and 
looked so very much like a saint that I was afraid he was going 
to excommunicate me. Nothing of the kind, however, for 
presently he gets up and locks the door, then sitting down at 
the table, he motioned me to do the same, which I did, and in 
five minutes there we were playing at cards, his reverence and 
myself. 

“ I soon found that his reverence knew quite as much about 
card-playing as I did. Divil a trick was there connected with 
cards that his reverence did not seem awake to. As, however, 
we were not playing for money, this circumstance did not give 
me much uneasiness; so we played game after game for two 
hours, when his reverence, having business, told me I might go, 
so I took up my cards, made my obedience, and left him. The 
next day I had other games with him, and so on for a very long 
time, still playing for nothing. At last his reverence grew tired 
of playing for nothing, and proposed that we should play for 
money. Now, I had no desire to play with his reverence for 


286 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


money, as I knew that doing so would bring on a quarrel. As 
long as we were playing for nothing, I could afford to let his 
reverence use what tricks he pleased ; but if we played for money, 
I couldn’t do so. If he played his tricks, I must play mine, and 
use every advantage to , save my money ; and there was one I 
possessed which his reverence did not. The cards being my 
own, I had put some delicate little marks on the trump cards, 
just at the edges, so that when I daylt, by means of a little 
sleight of hand, I could dale myself any trump card I pleased. 
But I wished, as I said before, to have no dealings for money 
with his reverence, knowing that he was master in the house, 
and that he could lead me a dog of a life, if I offended him, either 
by winning his money, or not letting him win mine. So I told 
him I had no money to play with, but the ould thief knew better ; 
he knew that I was every day winning money from the scholars, 
and the sub-rector, and the other people of the house, and the ould 
thaif had determined to let me go on in that way winning money, 
and then by means of his tricks, which he thought I dare not 
resent, to win from me all my earnings — in a word, Shorsha, to let 
me fill myself like a sponge, and then squeeze me for his own 
advantage. So he made me play with him, and in less than three 
days came on the quarrel ; his reverence chated me, and I chated 
his reverence ; the ould thaif knew every trick that I knew, and 
one or two more ; but in daling out the cards I nicked his reverence ; 
scarcely a trump did I ever give him, Shorsha, and won his money 
purty freely. Och, it was a purty quarrel ! All the delicate 
names in the Newgate Calendar^ if ye ever heard of such a book ; 
all the hang-dog names in the Newgate histories, and the lives 
of Irish rogues, did we call each other — his reverence and I ! 
Suddenly, however, putting out his hand, he seized the cards, 
saying, ‘ I will examine these cards, ye chating scoundrel ! for I 
believe there are dirty marks on them, which ye have made in 
order to know the winning cards.’ ‘ Give me back my pack,’ said 
I, ‘ or manam on Dioul if I be not the death of ye ! ’ His rever- 
ence, however, clapped the cards into his pocket, and made the 
best of his way to the door, I hanging upon him. He was a gross, 
fat man, but, like most fat men, deadly strong, so he forced his 
way to the door, and, opening it, flung himself out, with me still 
holding on him like a terrier dog on a big fat pig; then he 
shouts for help, and in a little time I was secured and thrust into 
a lock-up room, where I was left to myself. Here was a purty 
alteration. Yesterday I was the idol of the religious house, 
thought more on than his reverence, every one paying me court 


1825 .] 


DISTRACTION. 


287 


and wurtship, and wanting to play cards with me, and to learn my 
tricks, and fed, moreover, on the tidbits of the table ; and to-day 
I was in a cell, nobody coming to look at me but the blackguard 
porter who had charge of me, my cards taken from me, and with 
nothing but bread and water to live upon. Time passed dreary 
enough for a month, at the end of which time his reverence came 
to me, leaving the porter just outside the door in order to come 
to his help should I be violent ; and then he read me a very purty 
lecture on my conduct, saying I had turned the religious house 
topsy-turvy, and corrupted the scholars, and that I was the chate 
of the world, for that on inspecting the pack he had discovered 
the dirty marks which I had made upon the trump cards for to 
know them by. He said a good dale more to me, which is not 
worth relating, and ended by telling me that he intended to let me 
out of confinement next day, but that if ever I misconducted my- 
self any more, he would clap me in again for the rest of my life. 
I had a good mind to call him an ould thaif, but the hope of 
getting out made me hold my tongue, and the next day I was let 
out; and need enough I had to be let out, for what with being 
alone, and living on the bread and water, I was becoming frighted, 
or, as the doctors call it, narvous. But when I was out — oh, what 
a change I found in the religious house ; no card-playing, for it had 
been forbidden to the scholars, and there was now nothing going 
on but reading and singing; divil a merry visage to be seen, but 
plenty of prim airs and graces ; but the case of the scholars, though 
bad enough, was not half so bad as mine, for they could speak to 
each other, whereas I could not have a word of conversation, for 
the ould thaif of a rector had ordered them to send me to 
‘ Coventry,’ telling them that I was a gambling chate, with morals 
bad enough to corrupt a horse regiment ; and whereas they were 
allowed to divert themselves with going out, I was kept reading 
and singing from morn till night. The only soul who was willing 
to exchange a word with me was the cook, and sometimes he and 
I had a little bit of discourse in a corner, and we condoled with 
each other, for he liked the change in the religious house almost 
as little as myself ; but he told me that, for all the change below 
stairs, there was still card-playing going on above, for that the ould 
thaif of a rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner played at 
cards together, and that the rector won money from the others — 
the almoner had told him so — and, moreover, that the rector was 
the thaif of the world, had been a gambler in his youth, and had 
once been kicked out of a club-house at Dublin for chating at 
cards, and after that circumstance had apparently reformed and 


288 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


lived dacently till the time when I came to the religious house 
with my pack, but that the sight of that had brought him back to 
his ould gambling. He told the cook, moreover, that the rector 
frequently went out at night to the houses of the great clergy and 
chated at cards. 

“ In this melancholy state, with respect to myself, things con- 
tinued a long time, when suddenly there was a report that his 
Holiness the Pope intended to pay a visit to the religious house in 
order to examine into its state of discipline. When I heard this 
I was glad, for I determined, after the Pope had done what he had 
come to do, to fall upon my knees before him, and make a regu- 
lar complaint of the treatment I had received, to tell him of the 
chating at cards of the rector, and to beg him to make the ould 
thaif give me back my pack again. So the day of the visit came, 
and his Holiness made his appearance with his attendants, and, 
having looked over the religious house, he went into the rector’s 
room with the rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner. I intended 
to have waited until his Holiness came out, but finding he stayed 
a long time I thought I would e’en go into him, so I went up to 
the door without anybody observing me — his attendants being 
walking about the corridor — and opening it I slipped in, and there 
what do you think I saw ? Why, his Holiness the Pope, and his 
reverence the rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner seated at 
cards ; and the ould thaif of a rector was dealing out the cards 
which ye had given me, Shorsha, to his Holiness the Pope, the 
sub-rector, the almoner, and himself.” 

In this part of his history I interrupted Murtagh, saying that I 
was afraid he was telling untruths, and that it was highly improbable 
that the Pope would leave the Vatican to play cards with Irish at 
their religious house, and that I was sure, if on his, Murtagh’s 
authority, I were to tell the world so, the world would never 
believe it. 

“ Then the world, Shorsha, would be a fool, even as you were 
just now saying you had frequently believed it to be ; the grand 
thing, Shorsha, is to be able to believe oneself ; if ye can do that, 
it matters very little whether the world believes ye or no. But a 
purty thing for you and the world to stickle at the Pope’s playing 
at cards at a religious house of Irish ; och ! if I were to tell you 
and the world what the Pope has been sometimes at, at the religious 
house of English thaives, I would excuse you and the world for 
turning up your eyes. However, I wish to say nothing against the 
Pope. I am a son of the Church, and if the Pope don’t interfere 
with my cards, divil a bit will I have to say against him ; but I saw 


1825.] 


“THE POPE DID NOT 


289 


the Pope playing, or about to play, with the pack which had been 

taken from me, and when I told the Pope, the Pope did not 

ye had better let me go on with my history, Shorsha ; whether you 
or the world belave it or not, I am sure it is quite as true as your 
tale of the snake, or saying that J^'inn got his burnt finger from 
the thaives of Loughlin ; and whatever you may say^ I am sure 
the world will think so too.” 

I apologised to Murtagh for interrupting him, and telling him 
that his history, whether true or not, was infinitely diverting, 
begged him to continue it. 


19 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


“ I WAS telling ye, Shorsha, when ye interrupted me, that I found 
the Pope, the rector, the sub-rector and the almoner seated at the 
table, the rector with my pack of cards in his hands, about to dale 
out to the Pope and the rest, not forgetting himself, for whom he 
intended all the trump-cards, no doubt. No sooner did they 
perceive me than they seemed taken all aback ; but the rector, 
suddenly starting up with the cards in his hand, asked me what 
I did there, threatening to have me well disciplined if I did not 
go about my business ; ‘ I am come for my pack,’ said I, ‘ ye ould 
thaif, and to tell his Holiness how I have been treated by ye ’ ; 
then going down on my knees before his Holiness, I said, ‘ Arrah, 
now, your Holiness ! will ye not see justice done \o a poor boy 
who has been sadly misused ? The pack of cards which that ould 
ruffian has in his hand are my cards, which he has taken from me, 
in order to chate with. Arrah ! don’t play with him, your Holiness, 
for he’ll only chate ye — there are dirty marks upon the cards which 
bear the trumps, put there in order to know them by ; and the 
ould thaif in dealing out will give himself all the good cards, and 
chate ye of the last farthing in your pocket ; so let them be taken 
from him, your Holiness and given back to me ; and order him 
to lave the room, and then, if your Holiness be for an honest 
game, don’t think I am the boy to baulk ye. I’ll take the ould 
ruffian’s place, and play with ye till evening, and all night besides, 
and divil an advantage will I take of the dirty marks, though I know 
them all, having placed them on the cards myself.’ I was going 
on in this way when the ould thaif of a rector, flinging down the 
cards, made at me as if to kick me out of the room, whereupon 
I started up and said : ‘ If ye are for kicking, sure two can play 
at that ’ ; and then I kicked at his reverence, and his reverence at 
me, and there was a regular scrimmage between us, which frightened 
the Pope, who, getting up, said some words which I did not under- 
stand, but which the cook afterwards told me were, ‘ English 
extravagance, and this is the second edition ’ ; for it seems that, 
a little time before, his Holiness had been frightened in St. Peter’s 
Church by the servant of an English family, which those ^thaives 

(290) 


1825.] 


. “G 77 E ME BACK MY PACK! 


291 


of the English religious house had been endeavouring to bring 
over to the Catholic faith, and who didn’t approve of their being 
converted. Och ! his Holiness did us all sore injustice to call us 
English, and to confound our house with the other ; for however 
dirty our house might be, our house was a clane house compared 
with the English house, and we honest people compared with those 
English thaives. Well, his Holiness was frighted, and the 
almoner ran out, and brought in his Holiness’s attendants, and they 
laid hold of me, but I struggled hard, and said : ‘ I will not go 
without my pack ; arrah, your Holiness ! make them give me back 
my pack, which Shorsha gave me in Dungarvon times of old ’ ; 
but my struggles were of no use. I was pulled away and put in 
the ould dungeon, and his Holiness went away sore frighted, 
crossing himself much, and never returned again. 

“ In the ould dungeon I was fastened to the wall by a chain, 
and there I was disciplined once every other day for the first 
three weeks, and then I was left to myself, and my chain, and 
hunger; and there I sat in the dungeon, sometimes screeching, 
sometimes holloing, for I soon became frighted, having nothing 
in the cell to divert me. At last the cook found his way to me 
by stealth, and comforted me a little, bringing me tidbits out of the 
kitchen ; and he visited me again and again — not often, however, 
for he dare only come when he could steal away the key from 
the custody of the thaif of a porter. I was three years in the 
dungeon, and should have gone mad but for the cook, and his 
words of comfort, and his tidbits, and nice books which he brought 
me out of the library, which were the Calendars of Newgate and 
the Lives of Irish Rogues and Raparees^ the only English books 
in the library. However, at the end of three years, the ould thaif 
of a rector, wishing to look at them books, missed them from the 
library, and made a perquisition about them, and the thaif of a 
porter said that he shouldn’t wonder if I had them, saying that 
he had once seen me reading; and then the rector came with 
others to my cell, and took my books from- me, from under my 
straw, and asked me how I came by them ; and on my refusal 
to tell, they disciplined me again till the blood ran down my back ; 
and making more perquisition they at last accused the cook of 
having carried the books to me, and the cook not denying, he 
was given warning to leave next day, but he left that night, and took 
me away with him, for he stole the key, and came to me and cut 
my chain through, and then he and I escaped from the religious 
house through a window — the cook with a bundle, containing what 
things he had. No sooner had we got out than the honest cook 


292 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


gave me a little bit of* money and a loaf, and told me to follow 
a way which he pointed out, which he said would lead to the 
sea ; and then, having embraced me after the Italian way, he left 
me, and I never saw him again. So I followed the way which 
the cook pointed out, and in two days reached a seaj5ort called 
Chiviter Vik, terribly foot foundered, and there I met a sailor who 
spoke Irish, and who belonged to a vessel just ready to sail for 
France ; and the sailor took me on board his vessel, and said 
I was his brother, and the captain gave me a passage to a place 
in France called Marseilles ; and when I got there, the captain and 
sailor got a little money for me and a passport, and I travelled 
across the country towards a place they directed me to called 
Bayonne, from which they said I might, perhaps, get to Ireland. 
Coming, however, to a place called Pau, all my money being gone, 
I enlisted into a regiment called the Army of the Faith, which 
was going into Spain, for the King of Spain had been dethroned 
and imprisoned by his own subjects, as perhaps you may have 
heard ; and the King of France, who was his cousin, was sending 
an army to help him, under the command of his own son, whom 
the English called Prince Hilt, because when he was told that he 
was appointed to the command, he clapped his hand on the hilt 
of his sword. So I enlisted into the regiment of the Faith, which 
was made up of Spaniards, many of them priests who had ran out 
of Spain, and broken Germans, and foot-foundered Irish like 
myself. It was said to be a blackguard regiment, that same regi- 
ment of the Faith ; but, ’faith, I saw nothing blackguardly going 
on in it, for you would hardly reckon card-playing, and dominoes, 
and pitch and toss blackguardly, and I saw nothing else going on 
in it. There was one thing in it which I disliked — the priests 
drawing their Spanish knives occasionally, when they lost their 
money. After we had been some time at Pau, the Army of the 
Faith was sent across the mountains into Spain, as the vanguard 
of the French ; and no sooner did the Spaniards see the Faith than 
they made a dash at it, and the Faith ran away, myself along with 
it, and got behind the P'rench army, which told it to keep there, and 
the Faith did so, and followed the French army, which soon scat- 
tered the Spaniards, and in the end placed the king on his throne 
again. When the war was over the Faith was disbanded ; some 
of the foreigners, however, amongst whom I was one, were put 
into a Guard regiment, and there I continued for more than a year. 

“ One day, being at a place called the Escurial, I took stock, 
as the tradesmen say, and found I possessed the sum of eighty 
dollars won by playing at cards, for though I could not play so 


1825.] 


VOYAGE EN ESPAGNE. 


293 


well with the foreign cards as with the pack ye gave me, Shorsha, 
I had yet contrived to win money from the priests and soldiers of 
the Faith. Finding myself possessed of such a capital I deter- 
mined to leave the service, and to make the best of my way to 
Ireland ; so I deserted, but coming in an evil hour to a place they 
calls Torre Lodones, I found the priest playing at cards with his 
parishioners. The sight of the cards made me stop, and then, 
fool like, notwithstanding the treasure I had about me, I must 
wish to play, so not being able to speak their language, I made 
signs to them to let me play, and the priest and his thaives con- 
sented willingly ; so I sat down to cards with the priest and two 
of his parishioners, and in a little time had won plenty of their 
money, but I had better never have done any such a thing, for 
suddenly the priest and all his parishioners set upon me and bate 
me, and took from me all I had, and cast me out of the village 
more dead than alive. Och ! it’s a bad village that, and if I had 
known what it was I would have avoided it, or run straight 
through it, though I saw all the card-playing in the world going on 
in it. There is a proverb about it, as I was afterwards told, old 
as the time of the Moors, which holds good to the present day — 
it is, that in Torre Lodones there are twenty-four housekeepers, 
and twenty-five thieves, maning that all the people are thaives, 
and the clergyman to boot, who is not reckoned a housekeeper ; 
and troth I found the clergyman the greatest thaif of the lot. 
After being cast out of that village I travelled for nearly a month, 
subsisting by begging tolerably well, for though most of the 
Spanish are thaives, they are rather charitable ; but though 
charitable thaives they do not like their own being taken from 
them without leave being asked, as I found to my cost; for on 
my entering a garden near Seville, without leave, to take an 
orange, the labourer came running up and struck me to the 
ground with a hatchet, giving me a big wound in the arm. I 
fainted with loss of blood, and on reviving I found myself in a 
hospital at Seville, to which the labourer and the people of the 
village had taken me. I should have died of starvation in that 
hospital had not some English people heard of me and come to 
see me ; they tended me with food till I was cured, and then paid 
my passage on board a ship to London, to which place the ship 
carried me. 

“ And now I was in London with five shillings in my pocket — 
all I had in the world — and that did not last for long ; and when 
it was gone I begged in the streets, but I did not get much by 
that, except a month’s hard labour in the correction-house; and 


294 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


when I came out I knew not what to do, but thought I would 
take a walk in the country, for it was springtime, and the weather 
was fine, so I took a walk about seven miles from London, and 
came to a place where a great fair was being held ; and there I 
begged, but got nothing but a halfpenny, and was thinking of 
going farther when I saw a man with a table, like that of mine, 
playing with thimbles, as you saw me. I looked at the play, and 
saw him win money, and run away, and hunted by constables 
more than once. I kept following the man, and at last entered 
into conversation with him ; and learning from him that he was in 
want of a companion to help him, I offered to help him if he 
would pay me ; he looked at me from top to toe, and did not 
wish at first to have anything to do with me, as he said my 
appearance was against me. ’Faith, Shorsha, he had better have 
looked at home, for his appearance was not much in his favour : 
he looked very much like a Jew, Shorsha. Flowever, he at last 
agreed to take me to be his companion or bonnet as he called it ; 
and I was to keep a look-out, and let him know when constables 
were coming, and to spake a good word for him occasionally, 
whilst he was chating folks with his thimbles and his pea. So I 
became his bonnet, and assisted him in the fair, and in many 
other fairs beside ; but I did not like my occupation much, or 
rather my master, who, though not a big man, was a big thaif, and 
an unkind one, for do all I could I could never give him pleasure ; 
and he was continually calling me fool and bogtrotter, and twit- 
ting me because I could not learn his thaives’ Latin, and discourse 
with him in itr and comparing me with another acquaintance, or 
bit of a pal of his, whom he said he had parted with in the fair, 
and of whom he was fond of saying all kinds of wonderful things, 
amongst others, that he knew the grammar of all tongues. At 
last, wearied with being twitted by him with not being able to 
learn his thaives’ Greek, I proposed that I should teach him Irish, 
that we should spake it together when we had anything to say in 
secret. To that he consented willingly ; but, och ! a purty hand 
he made with Irish, ’faith, not much better than did I with his 
thaives’ Hebrew. Then my turn came, and I twitted him nicely 
with dulness, and compared him with a pal that I had in ould 
Ireland, in Dungarvon times of yore, to whom I teached Irish, 
telling him that he was the broth of a boy, and not only knew the 
grammar of all human tongues, but the dialects of the snakes 
besides ; in fact, I tould him all about your own swate self, 
Shorsha, and many a dispute and quarrel had we together about 
our pals, which was the cleverest fellow, his or mine. 


1825.] 


THIMBLE-ENGRO. 


295 


“ Well, after having been wid him about two months, I quitted 
him without noise, taking away one of his tables, and some peas 
and thimbles ; and that I did with a safe conscience, for he paid 
me nothing, and was not over free with the meat and the drink, 
though I must say of him that he was a clever fellow, and perfect 
master of his trade, by which he made a power of money, and 
bating his not being able to learn Irish, and a certain Jewish lisp 
which he had, a great master of his tongue, of which he was very 
proud ; so much so, that he once told me that when he had saved 
a certain sum of money he meant to leave off the thimbling 
business, and enter Parliament ; into which, he said, he could get 
at any time, through the interest of a friend of his, a Tory Peer — 
my Lord Whitefeather, with whom, he said, he had occasionally 
done business. With the table, and other things which I had 
taken, I commenced trade on my own account, having contrived 
to learn a few of his tricks. My only capital was the change for 
half a guinea, which he had once let fall, and which I picked up, 
which was all I could ever get from him : for it was impossible to 
stale any money from him, he was so awake, being up to all the 
tricks of thaives, having followed the diving trade, as he called it, 
for a considerable time. My wish was to make enough by my 
table to enable me to return with credit to ould Ireland, where I 
had no doubt of being able to get myself ordained as priest ; and, 
in troth, notwithstanding I was a beginner, and without any com- 
panion to help me, I did tolerably well, getting my meat and 
drink, and increasing my small capital, till I came to this unlucky 
place of Horncastle, where I was utterly ruined by the thaif in the 
rider’s dress. And now, Shorsha, I am after telling you my 
history ; perhaps you will now be telling me something about 
yourself? ” 

I told Murtagh all about myself that I deemed necessary to 
relate, and then asked him what he intended to do ; he repeated 
that he was utterly ruined, and that he had no prospect before 
him but starving, or making away with himself. I inquired 
“ How much would take him to Ireland, and establish him there 
with credit”. “Five pounds,” he answered, adding, “but who 
in the world would be fool enough to lend me five pounds, unless 
it be yourself, Shorsha, who, may be, have not got it ; for when 
you told me about yourself, you made no boast of the state of 
your affairs.” “ I am not very rich,” I replied, “ but I think I 
can accommodate you with what you want. I consider myself 
under great obligations to you, Murtagh; it was you who in- 
structed me in the language of Oilein nan Naomha^ which has 


296 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


been the foundation of all my acquisitions in philology; with- 
out you, I should not be what I am — Lavengro ! which 
signifies a philologist. Here is the money, Murtagh,” said I, 
putting my hand into my pocket, and taking out five pounds, 
“much good may it do you.” He took the money, stared at 
it, and then at me — “ And you mane to give me this, Shorsha? ” 
“It is no longer mine to give,” said I; “it is yours.” “And 
you give it to me for the gratitude you bear me?” “ Yes,” said 
I, “ and for Dungarvon times of old.” “ Well, Shorsha,” said he, 
“you are a broth of a boy, and I’ll take your benefaction — five 
pounds ! och, Jasus ! ” He then put the money in his pocket, 
and springing up, waved his hat three times, uttering some old 
Irish cry ; then, sitting down, he took my hand, and said : “ Sure, 
Shorsha, I’ll be going thither ; and when I get there, it is turning 
over another leaf I will be ; I have learnt a thing or two abroad ; 
I will become a priest ; that’s the trade, Shorsha ! and I will cry 
out for repale ; that’s the cry, Shorsha ! and I’ll be a fool no 
longer.” “And what will you do with your table?” said 1. 
“’Faith, I’ll be taking it with me, Shorsha; and when I gets 
to Ireland, I’ll get it mended, and I will keep it in the house 
which I shall have ; and when I looks upon it, I will be thinking 
of all I have undergone.” “ You had better leave it behind you,” 
said I ; “if you take it with you, you will, perhaps, take up the 
thimble trade again before you get to Ireland, and lose the money 
I am after giving you.” “No fear of that, Shorsha ; never will I 
play on that table again, Shorsha, till I get it mended, which shall 
not be till I am a priest, and have a house in which to place it.” 

Murtagh and I then went into the town, where we had some 
refreshment together, and then parted on our several ways. I 
heard nothing of him for nearly a quarter of a century, when a 
person who knew him well, coming from Ireland, and staying at 
my humble house, told me a great deal about him. He reached 
Ireland in safety, soon reconciled himself with his Church, and 
was ordained a priest; in the priestly office he acquitted himself 
in a way very satisfactory, upon the whole, to his superiors, having, 
as he frequently said, learned wisdom abroad. The Popish 
Church never fails to turn to account any particular gift which its 
servants may possess ; and discovering soon that Murtagh was en- 
dowed with considerable manual dexterity — proof of which he 
frequently gave at cards, and at a singular game which he 
occasionally played at thimbles — it selected him as a very fit 
person to play the part of exorcist ; and accordingly he travelled 
through a great part of Ireland, casting out devils from people 


1825.] 


MURTAGH AS PRIEST. 


297 


possessed, which he afterwards exhibited, sometimes in the shape 
of rabbits, and occasionally birds and fishes. There is a holy 
island in a lake in Ireland, to which the people resort at a par- 
ticular season of the year. Here Murtagh frequently attended, 
and it was here that he performed a cure which will cause his 
name long to be remembered in Ireland, delivering a possessed 
woman of two demons, which he brandished aloft in his hands, 
in the shape of two Targe eels, and subsequently hurled into the 
lake, amidst the shouts of an enthusiastic multitude. Besides 
playing the part of an exorcist, he acted that of a politician with 
considerable success ; he attached himself to the party of the sire 
of agitation — “the man of paunch,” and preached and hallooed 
for repeal with the loudest and best, as long as repeal was the cry ; 
as soon, however, as the Whigs attained the helm of Government, 
and the greater part of the loaves and fishes — more politely 
termed the patronage of Ireland — was placed at the disposition 
of the priesthood, the tone of Murtagh, like that of the rest of his 
brother saggarts, was considerably softened ; he even went so far 
as to declare that politics were not altogether consistent with 
sacerdotal duty ; and resuming his exorcisms, which he had for 
some time abandoned, he went to the Isle of Holiness, and de- 
livered a possessed woman of six demons in the shape of white 
mice. He, however, again resumed the political mantle in the 
year 1848, during the short period of the rebellion of the so-called 
Young Irelanders. The priests, though they apparently sided 
with this party, did not approve of it, as it was chiefly formed of 
ardent young men, fond of what they termed liberty, and by no 
means admirers of priestly domination, being mostly Protestants. 
Just before the outbreak of this rebellion, it was determined 

between the priests and the , that this party should be 

rendered comparatively innocuous by being deprived of the sinews 
of war — in other words, certain sums of money which they had 
raised for their enterprise. Murtagh was deemed the best quali- 
fied person in Ireland to be entrusted with the delicate office of 
getting their money from them. Having received his instructions, 
he invited the leaders to his parsonage amongst the mountains, 
under pretence of deliberating with them about what was to be 
done. They arrived there just before nightfall, dressed in red, 
yellow and green, the colours so dear to enthusiastic Irishmen ; 
Murtagh received them with great apparent cordiality, and entered 
into a long discourse with them, promising them the assistance of 
himself and order, and received from them a profusion of thanks. 
After a time Murtagh, observing, in a jocular tone, that consulting 


298 


THE ROMANY RYE. 


[1825. 


was dull work, proposed a game of cards, and the leaders, though 
somewhat surprised, assenting, he went to a closet, and taking out 
a pack of cards, laid it upon the table ; it was a strange dirty pack, 
and exhibited every mark of having seen very long service. On 
one of his guests making some remarks on the “ ancientness ” of 
its appearance, Murtagh observed that there was a very wonderful 
history attached to that pack ; it had been presented to him, he 
said, by a young gentleman, a disciple of his, to whom, in Dun- 
garvon times of yore, he had taught the Irish language, and of 
whom he related some very extraordinary things ; he added that 
he, Murtagh, had taken it to , where it had once the happi- 

ness of being in the hands of the Holy Father ; by a great misfor- 
tune, he did not say what, he had lost possession of it, and had 
returned without it, but had some time since recovered it ; a 

nephew of his, who was being educated at for a priest, 

having found it in a nook of the college, and sent it to him. 

Murtagh and the leaders then played various games with this 
pack, more especially one called by the initiated “ blind hookey,” 
the result being that at the end of about two hours the leaders 
found they had lost one-half of their funds ; they now looked 
serious, and talked of leaving the house, but Murtagh begging 
them to stay supper, they consented. After supper, at which the 
guests drank rather freely, Murtagh said that, as he had not the least 
wish to win their money, he intended to give them their revenge ; 
he would not play at cards with them, he added, but at a funny 
game of thimbles, at which they would be sure of winning back 
their own ; then going out, he brought in a table, tall and narrow, 
on which placing certain thimbles and a pea, he proposed that 
they should stake whatever they pleased on the almost certainty 
of finding the pea under the thimbles. The leaders, after some 
hesitation, consented, and were at first eminently successful, win- 
ning back the greater part of what they had lost ; after some time, 
however. Fortune, or rather Murtagh, turned against them, and 
then, instead of leaving off, they doubled and trebled their stakes, 
and continued doing so until they had lost nearly the whole of 
their funds. Quite furious, they now swore that Murtagh had 
cheated them, and insisted on having their property restored to 
them. Murtagh, without a word of reply, went to the door, and 
shouting into the passage something in Irish, the room was in- 
stantly filled with bogtrotters, each at least six feet high, with a 
stout shillelah in his hand. Murtagh then turning to his guests, 
asked them what they meant by insulting an anointed priest ; 
telling them that it was not for the likes of them to avenge the 


1825.] 


THE AVENGER OV IRELAND. 


299 


wrongs of Ireland. I have been clane mistaken in the whole of 
ye,” said he, “ I supposed ye Irish, but have found, to my sorrow, 
that ye are nothing of the kind ; purty fellows to pretend to be 
Irish, when there is not a word of Irish on the tongue of any of 
ye, divil a ha’porth; the illigant young gentleman to whom I 
taught Irish, in Dungarvon times of old, though not born in Ire- 
land, has more Irish in him than any ten of ye. He is the boy 
to avenge the wrongs of Ireland, if ever foreigner is to do it.” 
Then saying something to the bogtrotters, they instantly cleared 
the room of the young Irelanders, who retired sadly disconcerted j 
nevertheless, being very silly young fellows, they hoisted the 
standard of rebellion ; few, however, joining them, partly because 
they had no money, and partly because the priests abused them 
with might and main, their rebellion ended in a lamentable 
manner ; themselves being seized and tried, and though convicted, 
not deemed of sufficient importance to be sent to the scaffold, 
where they might have had the satisfaction of saying — 

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. 

My visitor, after saying that of the money won, Murtagh retained 
a considerable portion, that a part went to the hierarchy for what 
were called church purposes, and that the took the re- 

mainder, which it employed in establishing a newspaper, in which 
the private characters of the worthiest and most loyal Protestants 
in Ireland were traduced and vilified, concluded his account by 
observing, that it was the common belief that Murtagh, having by 
his services, ecclesiastical and political, acquired the confidence of 
the priesthood and favour of the Government, would, on the first 
vacancy, be appointed to the high office of Popish Primate of 
Ireland. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


Leaving Horncastle I bent my steps in the direction of the east. 
I walked at a brisk rate, and late in the evening reached a large 
town, situate at the entrance of an extensive firth, or arm of the 
sea, which prevented my farther progress eastward. Sleeping that 
night in the suburbs of the town, I departed early next morning 
in the direction of the south. A walk of about twenty miles brought 
me to another large town, situated on a river, where I again turned 
towards the east. At the end of the town I was accosted by a 
fiery-faced individual, somewhat under the middle size, dressed as 
a recruiting sergeant. 

‘‘Young man,” said the recruiting sergeant, “ you are just the 
kind of person to serve the Honourable East India Company.” 

“ I had rather the Hono.urable Company should serve me,” 
said I. 

“Of course, young man. Well, the Honourable East India 
Company shall serve you — that’s reasonable. Here, take this 
shilling ; ’t is service- money. The Honourable Company engages 
to serve you, and you the Honourable Company; both parties 
shall be thus served ; that’s just and reasonable.” 

“ And what must I do for the Company ? ” 

“ Only go to India ; that’s all.” 

“And what should I do in India?” 

“ Fight, my brave boy ! fight, my youthful hero ! ” 

“ What kind of country is India? ” 

“The finest country in the world! Rivers, bigger than the 
Ouse. Hills, higher than anything near Spalding ! Trees — you 
never saw such trees I Fruits — you never saw such fruits I ” 

“And the people — what kind of folk are they?” 

“ Pah I Kauloes — blacks — a set of rascals not worth regarding.” 

“ Kauloes I ” said I ; “ blacks 1 ” 

“ Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant ; “ and they call us lolloes, 
which in their beastly gibberish, means reds.” 

“ Lolloes 1 ” said I ; “ reds 1 ” 

“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant, “kauloes and lolloes; and 
all the lolloes have to do is to kick and cut down the kauloes, and 


August, 1825.] 


EASTWARD BOUND. 


301 


take from them their rupees, which mean silver money. Why do 
you stare so ? ” 

“ Why,” said I, “ this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro.” 

“ Mr. Pet ? ” 

“Yes,” said I “and Tawno Chikno.” 

“ Tawno Chik ? I say, young fellow, I don’t like your way 

of speaking; no,* nor your way of looking. You are mad, sir; 
you are mad; and what’s this? Why your hair is grey! You 
won’t do for the Honourable Company — they like red. I’m glad 
I didn’t give you the shilling. Good-day to you.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I as I proceeded rapidly along a 
broad causeway, in the direction of the east, “if Mr. Petulengro 
and Tawno Chikno came originally from India. I think I’ll go 
there.” 


[End of VoL //., and of the fifth and last of the Autobiography 


APPENDIX. 


CHAPTER 1. 

A WORD FOR LA VENGRO. 

[Shortly after the publication of the first three volumes of the 
present work, the author received various letters from individuals, 
in which he was requested to state what might be the drift and 
tendency of Lavengro. The author cannot help thinking it some- 
what extraordinary, that, after a preface in which he was particularly 
careful to tell the public what the book was, and the object with 
which it was written, any fresh information with respect to it should 
be required of him. As, however, all the letters which he has 
received have been written in a friendly spirit, he will now endeav- 
our to be a little more explicit than on a former occasion.] 

Lavengro is the history up to a certain period of one of rather 
a peculiar mind and system of nerves, with an exterior shy and 
cold, under which lurk much curiosity, especially with regard to 
what is wild and extraordinary, a considerable quantity of energy 
and industry, and an unconquerable love of independence. It 
narrates his earliest dreams and feelings, dwells with minuteness 
on the ways, words and characters of his father, mother and 
brother, lingers on the occasional resting-places of his wandering 
half-military childhood, describes the gradual hardening of his 
bodily frame by robust exercises, his successive struggles, after his 
family and himself have settled down in a small local capital, to 
obtain knowledge of every kind, but more particularly philological 
lore ; his visits to the tent of the Romany chal, and the parlour of the 
Anglo-German philosopher; the effect produced upon his character 
by his flinging himself into contact with people all widely differing 
from each other, but all extraordinary ; his reluctance to settle 
down to the ordinary pursuits of life ; his struggles after moral 
truth; his glimpses of God and the obscuration of the Divine 
Being, to his mind’s eye ; and his being cast upon the world of 
London by the death of his father, at the age of nineteen. In 
the world within a world, the; world of London, it shows him 


APPENDIX. 


303 


1854-] 


playing his part for some time as he best can, in the capacity of 
a writer for reviews and magazines, and describes what he saw and 
underwent whilst labouring in that capacity ; it represents him, 
however, as never forgetting that he is the son of a brave but poor 
gentleman, and that if he is a hack author, he is likewise a scholar. 
It shows him doing no dishonourable jobs, and proves that if he 
occasionally associates with low characters, he does so chiefly to 
gratify the curiosity of a scholar. In his conversations with the 
apple-woman of London Bridge, the scholar is ever apparent, so 
again in his acquaintance with the man of the table ; for the book 
is no raker up of the uncleanness of London, and if it gives what 
at first sight appears refuse, it invariably shows that a pearl of 
some kind, generally a philological one, is contained amongst it ; 
it shows its hero always accompanied by his love of independence, 
scorning in the greatest poverty to receive favours from anybody, 
and describes him finally rescuing himself from peculiarly miser- 
able circumstances by writing a book, an original book, within 
a week, even as Johnson is said to have written his J^asselas, 
and Beckford his Vathek^ and tells how, leaving London, he 
betakes himself to the roads and fields. 

In the country it shows him leading a life of roving adventure, 
becoming tinker, gypsy, postillion, ostler ; associating with various 
kinds of people, chiefly of the lower classes, whose ways and 
habits are described ; but, though leading this erratic life, we 
gather from the book that his habits are neither vulgar nor vicious, 
that he still follows to a certain extent his favourite pursuits, 
hunting after strange characters, or analysing strange words and 
names. At the conclusion of the fifth volume, which terminates 
the first part of the history, it hints that he is about to quit his 
native land on a grand philological expedition. 

Those who read this book with attention — and the author 
begs to observe that it would be of little utility to read it hurriedly 
— may derive much information with respect to matters of phil- 
ology and literature; it will be found treating of most of the 
principal languages from Ireland to China, and of the literature 
which they contain ; and it is particularly minute with regard to 
the ways, manners and speech of the English section of the 
most extraordinary and mysterious clan or tribe of people to be 
found in the whole world— the children of Roma. But it contains 
matters of much more importance than anything in connection 
with philology, and the literature and manners of nations. Per- 
haps no work was ever offered to the public in which the kindness 
^nd providence of God have been set forth by more striking 


304 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. I. 


examples, or the machinations of priestcraft been more truly and 
lucidly exposed, or the dangers which result to a nation when it 
abandons itself to effeminacy, and a rage for what is novel and 
fashionable, than the present. 

With respect to the kindness and providence of God, are they 
not exemplified in the case of the old apple-woman and her son ? 
These are beings in many points bad, but with warm affections, 
who, after an agonising separation, are restored to each other, but 
not until the hearts of both are changed and purified by the 
influence of affliction. Are they not exemplified in the case of 
the rich gentleman, who touches objects in order to avert the evil 
chance ? This being has great gifts and many amiable qualities, 
but does not everybody see that his besetting sin is selfishness ? 
He fixes his mind on certain objects, and takes inordinate interest 
in them, because they are his own, and those very objects, through 
the providence of God, which is kindness in disguise, become 
snakes and scorpions to whip him. Tired of various pursuits, he 
at last becomes an author, and publishes a book, which is very 
much admired, and which he loves with his usual inordinate 
affection ; the book, consequently becomes a viper to him, and at 
last he flings it aside and begins another ; the book, however, is 
not flung aside by the world, who are benefited by it, deriving 
pleasure and knowledge from it : so the man who merely wrote 
to gratify self, has already done good to others, and got himself 
an honourable name. But God will not allow that man to put 
that book under his head and use it as a pillow : the book has 
become a viper to him, he has banished it, and is about another, 
which he finishes and gives to the world ; it is a better book than 
the first, and every one is delighted with it ; but it proves to the 
writer a scorpion, because he loves it with inordinate affection ; 
but it was good for the world that he produced this book, which 
stung him as a scorpion. Yes ; and good for himself, for the 
labour of writing it amused him, and perhaps prevented him from 
dying of apoplexy; but the book is banished, and another is begun, 
and herein, again, is the providence of God manifested ; the man 
has the power of producing still, and God determines that he shall 
give to the world what remains in his brain, which he would not 
do, had he been satisfied with the second work; he would 
have pne to sleep upon that as he would upon the first, for the 
man is selfish and lazy. In his account of what he suffered 
during the composition of this work, his besetting sin of selfishness 
is manifest enough ; the work on which he is engaged occupies 
his every thought, it is his idol, his deity, it ^hall be all his own, 


APPENDIX. 


305 


1854-] 


he won’t borrow a thought from any one else, and he is so afraid 
lest, when he publishes it, that it should be thought that he had 
borrowed from any one, that he is continually touching objects, 
his nervous system, owing to his extreme selfishness, having be- 
come partly deranged. He is left touching, in order to banish 
the evil chance from his book, his deity. No more of his history 
is given ; but does the reader think that God will permit that man 
to go to sleep on his third book, however extraordinary it may be ? 
Assuredly not. God will not allow that man to rest till he has 
cured him to a certain extent of his selfishness, which has, however, 
hitherto been very useful to the world. 

Then, again, in the tale of Peter Williams, is not the hand of 
Providence to be seen ? This person commits a sin in his child- 
hood, utters words of blasphemy, the remembrance of which, in 
after life, preying upon his imagination, unfits him for quiet pursuits, 
to which he seems to have been naturally inclined; but for the 
remembrance of that sin, he would have been Peter Williams the 
quiet, respectable Welsh farmer, somewhat fond of reading the 
ancient literature of his country in winter, evenings, after his work 
was done. God, however, was aware that there was something in 
Peter Williams to entitle him to assume a higher calling ; he 
therefore permits this sin, which, though a childish affair, was yet 
a sin, and committed deliberately, to prey upon his mind till he 
becomes at last an instrument in the hand of God, a humble Paul, 
the great preacher, Peter Williams, who, though he considers 
himself a reprobate and a castaway, instead of having recourse to 
drinking in mad desperation, as many do who consider themselves 
reprobates, goes about Wales and England preaching the word of 
God, dilating on his power and majesty, and visiting the sick and 
afflicted, until God sees fit to restore to him his peace of mind ; 
which he does not do, however, until that mind is in a proper 
condition to receive peace, till it has been purified by the pain 
of the one idea which has so long been permitted to riot in his 
brain ; which pain, however, an angel, in the shape of a gentle, 
faithful wife, had occasionally alleviated ; for God is merciful even 
in the blows which He bestoweth, and will not permit any one to 
be tempted beyond the measure which he can support. And 
here it will be as well for the reader to ponder upon the means 
by which the Welsh preacher is relieved from his mental misery : 
he is not relieved by a text from the Bible, by the words of con- 
solation and wisdom addressed to him by his angel-minded wife, 
nor by the preaching of one yet more eloquent than himself ; but 
by a quotation made by Lavengro from the life of Mary 

20 


3o6 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. I. 


Flanders, cut-purse and prostitute, which life Lavengro had been 
in the habit of reading at the stall of his old friend the apple- 
woman, on London Bridge, who had herself been very much 
addicted to the perusal of it, though without any profit whatever. 
Should the reader be dissatisfied with the manner in which Peter 
Williams is made to find relief, the author would wish to answer, 
that the Almighty frequently accomplishes his purposes by means 
which appear very singular to the eyes of men, and at the same 
time to observe that the manner in which that relief is obtained, 
is calculated to read a lesson to the proud, fanciful and squeamish, 
who are ever in a fidget *lest they should be thought to mix with 
low society or to bestow a moment’s attention on publications 
which are not what is called of a perfectly unobjectionable 
character. Had not Lavengro formed the acquaintance of the old 
apple-woman on London Bridge, he would not have had an oppor- 
tunity of reading the life of Mary Flanders ; and, consequently, of 
storing in a memory, which never forgets anything, a passage 
which contained a balm for the agonised mind of poor Peter 
Williams. The best medicines are not always found in the finest 
shops. Suppose, for example, if, instead of going to London 
Bridge to read, he had gone to Albemarle Street, and had received 
from the proprietors of the literary establishment in that very 
fashionable street, permission to read the publications on the tables 
of the saloons there, does the reader think he would have met any 
balm in those publications for the case of Peter Williams ? does 
the reader suppose that he would have found Mary Flanders 
there ? He would certainly have found that highly unobjection- 
able publication Rasselas, and the Spectator^ or Lives of Royal and 
Illustrious Personages, but, of a surety, no Mary Flanders ; so 
when Lavengro met with Peter Williams, he would have been 
unprovided with a balm to cure his ulcerated mind, and have 
parted from him in a way not quite so satisfactory as the manner 
in which he took his leave of him ; for it is certain that he might 
have read Rasselas, and all the other unexceptionable works to be 
found in the library of Albemarle Street, over and over again, 
before he would have found any cure in them for the case of Peter 
Williams. Therefore the author requests the reader to drop any 
squeamish nonsense he may wish to utter about Mary Flanders, 
and the manner in which Peter Williams was cured. 

And now with respect to the old man who knew Chinese, 
but could not tell what was o’clock. This individual was a man 
whose natural powers would have been utterly buried and lost 
beneath a mountain of sloth and laziness had not God determined 


i 854-] 


APPENDIX. 


307 


otherwise. He had in his early years chalked out for himself a 
plan of life in which he had his own ease and self-indulgence 
solely in view ; he had no particular bad passions to gratify, he 
only wished to lead an easy, quiet life, just as if the business of 
this mighty world could be carried on by innocent people fond 
of ease and quiet, or that Providence would permit innocent, quiet 
drones to occupy any portion of the earth and to cumber it. 
God had at any rate decreed that this man should not cumber it 
as a drone. He brings a certain affliction upon him, the agony 
of which produces that terrible whirling of the brain which, 
unless it is stopped in time, produces madness ; he suffers in- 
describable misery for a period, until one morning his attention 
is arrested, and his curiosity is aroused, by certain Chinese letters 
on a teapot; his curiosity increases more and more, and, of 
course, in proportion as his curiosity is increased with respect to 
the Chinese marks, the misery in his brain, produced by his 
mental affliction, decreases. He sets about learning Chinese, 
and after the lapse of many years, during which his mind subsides 
into a certain state' of tranquillity, he acquires sufficient knowledge 
of Chinese to be able to translate with ease the inscriptions to be 
found on its singular crockery. Yes, the laziest of human beings, 
through the providence of God, a being, too, of rather inferior 
capacity, acquires the written part of a language so difficult that, 
as Lavengro said on a former occasion, none but the cleverest 
people in Europe, the French, are able to acquire it. But God 
did not intend that man should merely acquire Chinese. He 
intended that he should be of use to his species, and by the 
instrumentality of the first Chinese inscription which he translates, 
the one which first arrested his curiosity, he is taught the duties of 
hospitality; yes, by means of an inscription in the language of a 
people, who have scarcely an idea of hospitality themselves, God 
causes the slothful man to play a useful and beneficent part in 
the world, relieving distressed wanderers, and, amongst others, 
Lavengro himself. But a striking indication of the man’s sur- 
prising sloth is still apparent in what he omits to do; he has 
learnt Chinese, the most difficult of languages, and he practises 
acts of hospitality, because he believes himself enjoined to do so 
by the Chinese inscription, but he cannot tell the hour of the 
day by the clock within his house ; he can get on, he thinks, 
very well without being able to do so ; therefore, from this one 
omission, it is easy to come to a conclusion as to what a sluggard’s 
part the man would have played in life, but for the dispensation 
of Providence ; nothing but extreme agony could have induced 


3o8 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. I, 


such a man to do anything useful. He still continues, with all 
he has acquired, with all his usefulness, and with all his innocence 
of character, without any proper sense of religion, though he has 
attained a rather advanced age. If it be observed, that this want 
of religion is a great defect in the story, the author begs leave to 
observe that he cannot help it. Lavengro relates the lives of 
people so far as they were placed before him, but no further. 
It was certainly a great defect in so good a man to be without 
religion ; it was likewise a great defect in so learned a man not to 
be able to tell what was o’clock. It is probable that God, in His 
loving kindness, will not permit that man to go out of the world 
without religion ; who knows but some powerful minister of the 
Church, full of zeal for the glory of God, will illume that man’s 
dark mind ; perhaps some clergyman will come to the parish who 
will visit him and teach him his duty to his God. Yes, it is very 
probable that such a man, before he dies, will have been made 
to love his God ; whether he will ever learn to know what’s 
o’clock, is another matter. It is probable that he will go out of 
the world without knowing what’s o’clock. It is not so necessary 
to be able to tell the time of day by the clock as to know 
one’s God through His inspired word ; a man cannot get to 
heaven without religion, but a man can get there very comfortably 
without knowing what’s o’clock. 

But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested 
in the case of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is 
enabled to make his way in the world up to a certain period, 
without falling a prey either to vice or poverty. In his history, 
there is a wonderful illustration of part of the text, quoted by his 
mother : I have been young, but now am old, yet never saw I 
the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread ”. He is the 
son of good and honourable parents, but at the critical period 
of life, that of entering into the world, he finds himself without 
any earthly friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way ; 
he does not become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor 
does he get into Parliament, nor does the last volume conclude 
in the most satisfactory and unobjectionable manner, by his 
marrying a dowager countess, as that wise man Addison did, or 
by his settling down as a great country gentleman, perfectly happy 
and contented, like the very moral Roderick Random, or the 
equally estimable Peregrine Pickle ; he is hack author, gypsy, 
tinker and postillion, yet, upon the whole, he seems to be quite 
as happy as the younger sons of most earls, to have as high 
feelings of honour ; and when the reader loses sight of him, he 


APPENDIX. 


309 


1854-] 


has money in his pocket honestly acquired, to enable him to 
commence a journey quite as laudable as those which the younger 
sons of earls generally undertake. Surely all this is a manifesta- 
tion of the kindness and providence of God ; and yet he is not a 
religious person ; up to the time when the reader loses sight of 
him, he is decidedly not a religious person ; he has glimpses, it is 
true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he prays very 
seldom, is not fond of going to 'church ; and, though he admires 
Tate and Brady’s version of the Psalms, his admiration is rather 
caused by the beautiful poetry which that version contains than 
the religion ; yet his tale is not finished — like the tale of the 
gentleman who touched objects, and that of the old man who 
knew Chinese without knowing what was o’clock ; perhaps, like 
them, he is destined to become religious, and to have, instead of 
occasional glimpses, frequent and distinct views of his God ; yet, 
though he may become religious, it is hardly to be expected that 
he will become a very precise and straightlaced person ; it is 
probable that he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his 
gypsyism, his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps 
some inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any 
friend who may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and 
a readiness to take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and as 
little hop as may well be — ale at least two years old — with the 
aforesaid friend, when the diversion is over ; for, as it is the 
belief of the writer that a person may get to heaven very comfort- 
ably without knowing what’s o’clock, so it is his belief that he will 
not be refused admission there, because to the last he has been 
fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a willingness 
to partake of any of the good things which it pleases the Almighty 
to put within the reach of his children during their sojourn upon 
earth. 


CHAPTER II. 

ON PRIESTCRAFT. 


The writer will now say a few words about priestcraft, and the 
machinations of Rome, and will afterwards say something about 
himself, and his motives for writing against them. 

With respect to Rome, and her machinations, much valuable 
information can be obtained from particular parts of Lavengro, 
and its sequel. Shortly before the time when the hero of the 
book is launched into the world, the Popish agitation in England 
had commenced. The Popish propaganda had determined to 
make a grand attempt on England ; Popish priests were scattered 
over the land, doing the best they could to make converts to the 
old superstition. With the plans of Rome, and her hopes, and 
the reasons on which those hopes are grounded, the hero of the 
book becomes acquainted, during an expedition which he makes 
into the country, from certain conversations which he holds with 
a priest in a dingle, in which the hero had taken up his residence ; 
he likewise learns from the same person much of the secret 
history of the Roman See, and many matters connected with the 
origin and progress of the Popish superstition. The individual 
with whom he holds these conversations is a learned, intelligent, 
but highly-un principled person, of a character however very 
common amongst the priests of Rome, who in general are people 
void of all religion, and who, notwithstanding they are tied to 
Rome by a band which they have neither the power nor wish to 
break, turn her and her practices, over their cups with their 
confidential associates, to a ridicule only exceeded by that to 
which they turn those who become the dupes of their mistress 
and themselves. 

It is now necessary that the writer should say something with 
respect to himself, and his motives for waging war against Rome. 
First of all, with respect to himself, he wishes to state, that to the 
very last moment of his life, he will do and say all that in his 
power may be to hold up to contempt and execration the priest- 
craft and practices of Rome ; there is, perhaps, no person better 
acquainted than himself, not even among the choicest spirits of 
the priesthood, with the origin and history of Popery. Frorp 


i854-] 


APPENDIX. 


311 


what he saw and heard of Popery in England, at a very early 
period of his life, his curiosity was aroused, and he spared him- 
self no trouble, either by travel or study, to make himself well 
acquainted with it in all its phases, the result being a hatred of it, 
which he hopes and trusts he shall retain till the moment when 
his spirit quits the body. Popery is the great lie of the world ; a 
source from which more misery and social degradation have 
flowed upon the human race, than from all the other sources from 
which those evils come. It is the oldest of all superstitions ; and 
though in Europe it assumes the name of Christianity, it existed 
and flourished amidst the Himalayan hills at least two thousand 
years before the real Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea; in 
a word, it is Buddhism ; and let those who may be disposed to 
doubt this assertion, compare the Popery of Rome, and the 
superstitious practices of its followers, with the doings of the 
priests who surround the grand Lama ; and the mouthings, 
bellowing, turnings round, and, above all, the penances of the 
followers of Buddh with those of Roman devotees. But he is 
not going to dwell here on this point ; it is dwelt upon at tolerable 
length in the text, and has likewise been handled with extra- 
ordinary power by the pen of the gifted but irreligious Volney ; 
moreover, the e/ile of the Roman priesthood are perfectly well 
aware that their system is nothing but Buddhism under a slight 
disguise, and the European world in general has entertained for 
some time past an inkling of the fact. 

And now a few words with respect to the motives of the writer 
for expressing a hatred for Rome. 

This expressed abhorrence of the author for Rome might be 
entitled to little regard, provided it were possible to attribute it to 
any self-interested motive. There have been professed enemies 
of Rome, or of this or that system; but their professed enmity 
may frequently be traced to some cause which does them little 
credit ; but the writer of these lines has no motive, and can have 
no motive, for his enmity to Rome, save the abhorrence of an 
hon-est heart for what is false, base and cruel. A certain clergy- 
man wrote with much heat against the Papists in the time of ^ 

who was known to favour the Papists, but was not expected to 
continue long in office, and whose supposed successor, ^ the person, 
indeed, who did succeed him, was thought to be hostile to the 
Papists. This divine, who obtained a rich benefice from the 
successor of ^ who during — — ’s ^ time had always opposed 

1 MS., “ Canning ” (1827). 2 viscount Goderich, 


312 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. II. 


him in everything he proposed to do, and who, of course, during 
that time affected to be very inimical to Popery — this divine 
might well be suspected of having a motive equally creditable 
for writing against the Papists, as that which induced him to 
write for them, as soon as his patron, who eventually did some- 
thing more for him,^ had espoused their cause ; but what motive, 
save an honest one, can the present writer have, for expressing an 
abhorrence of Popery? He is no clergyman, and consequently 
can expect neither benefices nor bishoprics, supposing it were the 
fashion of the present, or likely to be the fashion of any future, 
administration to reward clergymen with benefices or bishoprics, 
who, in the defence of the religion of their country write, or shall 
write, against Popery, and not to reward those who write, or shall 
write, in favour of it, and all its nonsense and abominations. 

“ But if not a clergyman, he is the servant of a certain society 
which has the overthrow of Popery in view, and therefore,” etc. 
This assertion, which has been frequently made, is incorrect, 
even as those who have made it probably knew it to be. He 
is the servant of no society whatever. He eats his own bread,^ 
and is one of the very few men in England who are independent 
in every sense of the word. 

It is true he went to Spain with the colours of that society on 
his hat — oh ! the blood glows in his veins ! oh ! the marrow awakes 
in his old bones when he thinks of what he accomplished in Spain 
in the cause of religion and civilisation with the colours of that 
society in his hat, and its weapon in his hand, even the sword of 
the word of God ; how with that weapon he hewed left and right, 
making the priests fly before him, and run away squeaking: 
“ Vaya ! que demonio es estef*' Ay, and when he thinks of 
the plenty of Bible swords which he left behind him, destined 
to prove, and which have already proved, pretty calthrops in the 
heels of Popery. “ Halloo ! Batuschca,” he exclaimed the other 
night on reading an article in a newspaper “ what do you think 
of the present doings in Spain ? Your old friend the zingaro, the 
gitano who rode about Spain, to say nothing of Galicia, with the 
Greek Buchini behind him as his squire, had a hand in bringing 
them about ; there are many brave Spaniards connected with the 
present movement^ who took Bibles from his hands, and read 
them and profited by them, learning from the inspired page the 

MS., “ who eventually presented him with a bishopric, had espoused,” etc. 

^ MS., “ He is a small landed proprietor who eats,” etc. 

^MS., “the Despatch, of course”. 

4 The Spanish Revolution of’54-’56, made by O’Donnell. 


APPENDIX. 


313 


1854-] 


duties of one man towards another, and the real value of a priest- 
hood and their head, who set at nought the Word of God, and 
think only of their own temporal interests ; ay, and who learned 
Gitano — their own Gitano — from the lips of the London Calord, 
and also songs in the said Gitano, very fit to dumbfounder your 
semi-Buddhist priests when they attempt to bewilder people’s 
minds with their school-logic and pseudo-ecclesiastical nonsense, 
songs such as — 

‘ Un Erajai 

Sinaba chibando un sermon 1 

But with that society he has long since ceased to have any 
connection ; he bade it adieu with feelings of love and admiration 
more than fourteen years ago ; so in continuing to assault Popery, 
no h9pes of interest founded on that society can sway his mind — 
interest ! who, with worldly interest in view, would ever have 
anything to do with that society ? It is poor and supported, like 
its founder Christ, by poor people ; and so far from having poli- 
tical influence, it is in such disfavour, and has ever been, with 
the dastardly great, to whom the government of England has for 
many years past been confided, that the having borne its colours 
only for a month would be sufficient to exclude any man, whatever 
his talents, his learning, or his courage may be, from the slightest 
chance of being permitted to serve his country either for fee, or 
without. A fellow who unites in himself the bankrupt trader, the 
broken author, or rather book-maker, and the laughed-down single 
speech spouter of the House of Commons, may look forward, 
always supposing that at one time he has been a foaming radical, 
to the government of an important colony. Ay, an ancient fox 
who has lost his tail may, provided he has a score of radical 

1 MS. (corrected) ; — 

Un Erajdi 

Sindba chibando un sermdn ; 

Y lie falta un balichd 

A1 chindonid de aquel gdo ; 

Y chan^la que los cal6s 

Lo habfan nicobdo ; 

Y penel4 ’1 erajdi : 

“ Chabord ! 

Gufllate d tu quer, 

Y nicobdla la piri 

Que terdla ’1 balichd, 

Y chibdla andrd 

Una lima de tun chaborf, 

Chaborf, 

Una lima de tun chaborf,” 

See aXso Lavo-Lil, p. 200 , 


314 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. II. 


friends, who will swear that he can bark Chinese, though Chinese 
is not barked but sung, be forced upon a Chinese colony, though 
it is well known that to have lost one’s tail, is considered by the 
Chinese in general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been 
once connected with a certain society, to which, to its honour be 
it said, all the radical party are vehemently hostile, would be quite 
sufficient to keep any one not only from a government, but some- 
thing much less, even though he could translate the rhymed 
Sessions of Hariri, and were versed, still retaining his tail, in the 
two languages in which Kien-Loung wrote his Eulogium on 
Moukden, that piece which, translated by Aniyot, the learned 
Jesuit, won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire. 

No ! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he 
would, instead of writing against Popery, write for it ; all the 
trumpery titled — he will not call them great again — would then 
be for him, and their masters the radicals, with their hosts of news- 
papers, would be for him, more especially if he would commence 
maligning the society whose colours he had once on his hat — a 
society which, as the priest says in the text, is one of the very few 
Protestant institutions for w'hich the Popish Church entertains 
any fear, and consequently respect, as it respects nothing which 
it does not fear. The writer said that certain “ rulers ” would 
never forgive him for having been connected with that society ; 
he went perhaps too far in saying “ never”. It is probable that 
they would take him into favour on one condition, which is, that 
he should turn his pen and his voice against that society ; such a 
mark “of a better way of thinking,” would perhaps induce them 
to give him a government, nearly as good as that which they gave 
to a certain ancient radical fox at the intercession of his radical 
friends (who were bound to keep him from the pauper’s kennel), 
after he had promised to foam, bark and snarl at corruption no 
more ; he might even entertain hopes of succeeding, nay, of super- 
seding, the ancient creature in his government ; but even were he 
as badly off as he is well off, he would do no such thing. He 
would rather exist on crusts and water; he has often done so, 
and been happy; nay, he would rather starve than be a rogue — 
for even the feeling of starvation is happiness compared with what 
he feels who knows himself to be a rogue, provided he has any 
feeling at all. What is the use of a mitre or knighthood to a 
man who has betrayed his principles ? What is the use of a gilt 
collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a fox who has 
lost his tail ? Oh ! the horror which haunts the mind of the fox 
who has lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate loathes 


APPENDIX. 


315 


1854-] 


him and more especially if, like himself, she has lost her brush. 
Oh ! the horror which haunts the mind of the two-legged rogue 
who has parted with his principles, or those which he professed 
— for what ? We’ll suppose a government. What’s the use of a 
government, if, the next day after you have received it, you are 
obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with the hoot of every 
honest man sounding in your ears ? 

“ Lightly liar leaped and away ran.” 

— Piers Plowman. 

But bigotry; it has been said, makes the author write against 
Popery j and thorough-going bigotry, indeed, will make a person 
say or do anything. But the writer is a very pretty bigot truly ! 
Where will the public find traces of bigotry in anything he has 
written ? He has written against Rome with all his heart, with 
all his mind, with all his soul, and with all his strength ; but as a 
person may be quite honest, and speak and write against Rome, 
in like manner he may speak and write against her, and be quite 
free from bigotry ; though it is impossible for any one but a bigot 
or a bad man to write or speak in her praise; her doctrines, 
actions and machinations being what they are. 

Bigotry ! The author was born, and has always continued, in 
the wrong Church for bigotry, the quiet, unpretending Church of 
England ; a Church which, had it been a bigoted Church, and not 
long suffering almost to a fault, might with its opportunities, as 
the priest says in the text, have stood in a very different position 
from that which it occupies at present. No ! let those who are 
in search of bigotry, seek for it in a Church very different from 
the inoffensive Church of England, which never encourages 
cruelty or calumny. Let them seek for it amongst the members 
of the Church of Rome, and more especially amongst those who 
have renegaded to it. There is nothing, however false and 
horrible, which a pervert to Rome will not say for his Church, and 
which his priests will not encourage him in saying ; and there is 
nothing, however horrible — the more horrible indeed and revolting 
to human nature, the more eager he would be to do it — which he will 
not do for it and which his priests will not encourage him in doing. 

Of the readiness which converts to Popery exhibit to sacrifice 
all the ties of blood and affection on the shrine of their newly- 
adopted religion, there is a curious illustration in the work of 
Luigi Pulci. This man, who was born in Florence in the year 
1432, and who was deeply versed in the Bible, composed a poem, 
called the Mor^ante Maggiore, which he recited at the t^ble of 


3i6 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. II. 


Lorenzo de’ Medici, the great patron of Italian genius. It is a 
mock-heroic and religious poem, in which the legends of knight- 
errantry, and of the Popish Church, are turned to unbounded 
ridicule. The pretended hero of it is a converted giant, called 
Morgante; though his adventures do not occupy the twentieth 
part of the poem, the principal personages being Charlemagne, 
Orlando, and his cousin Rinaldo of Montalban. Morgante has 
two brothers, both of them giants, and in the first canto of the 
poem, Morgante is represented with his brothers as carrying on a 
feud with the abbot and monks of a certain convent, built upon 
the confines of heathenesse; the giants being in the habit of 
flinging down stones, or rather huge rocks, on the convent. 
Orlando, however, who is banished from the court of Charlemagne, 
arriving at the convent, undertakes to destroy them, and, accord- 
ingly, kills Passamonte and Alabastro, and converts Morgante, 
whose mind had been previously softened by a vision, in which 
the “ Blessed Virgin” figures. No sooner is he converted than, as 
a sign of his penitence, what does he do, but hastens and cuts off 
the hands of his two brothers, saying — 

“ lo vo’ tagliar le mani a tutti quanti 
jE porterolle a que’ monaci santi 

And he does cut off the hands of his brethren, and carries 
them to the abbot, who blesses him for so doing. Pulci here is 
holding up to ridicule and execration the horrid butchery or 
betrayal of friends by popish converts, and the encouragement 
they receive from the priest. No sooner is a person converted to 
Popery, than his principal thought is how he can bring the hands 
and feet of his brethren, however harmless they may be, and 
different from the giants, to the “holy priests,” who, if he 
manages to do so, never fail to praise him, saying to the miserable 
wretch, as the abbot said to Morgante : — 

“ Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico 
A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nemico”.^ 

Can the English public deny the justice of Pulci’s illustration, 
after something which it has lately witnessed ? Has it not seen 
equivalents for the hands and feet of brothers carried by popish 
perverts to the “ holy priests,” and has it not seen the manner in 
which the offering has been received? Let those who are in 
quest of Bigotry seek for it among the perverts to Rome, and not 
amongst those who, born in the pale of the Church of England, 
have always continued in it. 

1 Canto I, St. 53. 


=^St. 57. 


CHAPTER III. 

ON FOREIGN NONSENSE. 

With respect to the third point, various lessons which the book 
reads to the nation at large, and which it would be well for the 
nation to ponder and profit by. 

There are many species of nonsense to which the nation is 
much addicted, and of which the perusal of Lavengro ought to 
give them a wholesome shame. First of all, with respect to the 
foreign nonsense so prevalent now in England. The hero is a 
scholar ; but, though possessed of a great many tongues, he affects 
to be neither Frenchman, nor German, nor this or that foreigner ; 
he is one who loves his country, and the language and literature 
of his country, and speaks up for each and all when there is 
occasion to do so. Now what is the case with nine out of ten 
amongst those of the English who study foreign languages ? No 
sooner have they picked up a smattering of this or that speech 
than they begin to abuse their own country, and everything con- 
nected with it, more especially its language. This is particularly 
the case with those who call themselves German students. It is 
said, and the writer believes with truth, that when a woman falls in 
love with a particularly ugly fellow, she squeezes him with ten 
times more zest than she would a handsome one, if captivated by 
him. So it is with these German students ; no sooner have they 
taken German in hand than there is nothing like German. Oh, 
the dear, delightful German ! How proud I am that it is now my 
own, and that its divine literature is within my reach ! And all 
this whilst mumbling the most uncouth speech, and crunching the 
most crabbed literature in Europe. The writer is not an exclusive 
admirer of everything English ; he does not advise his country 
people never to go abroad, never to study foreign languages, and 
he does not wish to persuade them that there is nothing beautiful 
or valuable in foreign literature ; he only wishes that they would 
not make themselves fools with respect to foreign people, foreign 
languages or reading ; that if they chance to have been in Spain, 
and have picked up a little Spanish, they would not affect the airs 
of Spaniards; that if males they would not make Tom-fools of 
themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, dressing them- 


3i8 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. III. 


selve in zamarras, and saying, carajo ! * and if females that they 
would not make zanies of themselves by sticking cigars into their 
mouths, flinging mantillas over their heads, and by saying carat, 
and perhaps carajo too ; or if they have been in France or Italy, 
and have picked up a little French or Italian, they would not 
affect to be French or Italians ; and particularly, after having been 
a month or two in Germany, or picked up a little German in 
England, they would not make themselves foolish about every- 
thing German, as the Anglo-German in the book does — a real 
character, the founder of the Anglo-German school in England, 
and the cleverest Englishman who ever talked or wrote encomiastic 
nonsense about Germany and the Germans. Of all infatuations 
connected with what is foreign, the infatuation about everything 
that is German, to a certain extent prevalent in England, is 
assuredly the most ridiculous. One can find something like a 
palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish about 
particular languages, literatures and people. The Spanish cer- 
tainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and 
captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains 
the grand book of the world. French is a manly language. The 
French are the great martial people in the world; and French 
literature is admirable in many respects. Italian is a sweet 
language, and of beautiful simplicity — its literature perhaps the 
first in the world. The Italians ! — wonderful men have sprung up 
in Italy. Italy is not merely famous for painters, poets, musicians, 
singers and linguists — the greatest linguist the world ever saw, 
the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an Italian ; but it is celebrated 
for men — men emphatically speaking : Columbus was an Italian, 
Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of the 
mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte; but the German language, German 
literature, and the Germans ! The writer has already stated his 
opinion with respect to German ; he does not speak from ignor- 
ance or prejudice ; he has heard German spoken, and many other 
languages. German literature ! He does not speak from ignor- 
ance, he has read that and many a literature, and he repeats 

however, he acknowledges that there is one fine poem in the 
German language, that poem is the Oberon ; a poem, by-the- 
bye, ignored by the Germans — a speaking fact — and of course, by 
the Anglo-Germanists. The Germans ! he has been amongst 
them, and amongst many other nations, and confesses that his 
opinion of the Germans, as men, is a very low one. Germany, it 


An obscene oath. 


APPENDIX. 


319 


1854-] 


is true, has produced one very great man, the monk who fought 
the Pope, and nearly knocked him down ; but this man his 
country-men — a telling fact — affect to despise, and, of course, the 
Anglo-Germanists : the father of Anglo-Germanism was very fond 
of inveighing against Luther. 

The madness, or rather foolery, of the English for foreign 
customs, dresses and languages, is not an affair of to-day, or 
yesterday — it is of very ancient date, and was very properly ex- 
posed nearly three centuries ago by one Andrew Borde, who 
under the picture of a “Naked man, with a pair of shears in one 
hand, and a roll of cloth in the other,” inserted the following 
lines along with others : — * 

I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here, 

Musing in my mind what garment I shall weare ; 

For now I will weare this, and now I will weare that. 

Now I will weare, I cannot tell what. 

All new fashions be pleasant to mee, 

I will have them, whether I thrive or thee ; 

What do I care if all the world me fail ? 

I will have a garment [shall] reach to my taile ; 

Then am I a minion, for I weare the new guise. 

The next yeare after I hope to be wise. 

Not only in wearing my gorgeous array, 

For I will go to learning a whole summer’s day ; 

I will learn Latine, Hebrew, Greek, and French, 

And I will learn Dutch, sitting on my bench. 

I had no peere if to myself I were true. 

Because I am not so, divers times do I rue. 

Yet I lacke nothing, I have all things at will 
If I were wise and would hold myself still. 

And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining. 

But ever to be true to God and my King. 

But I have such matters rowling in my pate. 

That I will and do I cannot tell what, etc. 

* See Muses' Library, pp. 86, 87. London, 1738. [Better, the original ed. 
(1547). See Notes. '\ 


CHAPTER IV. 


ON GENTILITY NONSENSE. 

What is gentility? People in different stations in England 
entertain different ideas of what is genteel,* but it must be some- 
thing gorgeous, glittering or tawdry, to be considered genteel by 
any of them. The beau-ideal of the English aristocracy, of 
course with some exceptions, is some young fellow with an im- 
perial title, a military personage of course, for what is military is 
so particularly genteel, with flaming epaulets, a cocked hat and 
plume, a prancing charger, and a band of fellows called generals 
and colonels, with flaming epaulets, cocked hats and plumes, and 
prancing chargers vapouring behind him. It was but lately that 
the daughter of an English marquis was heard to say, that the sole 
remaining wish of her heart — she had known misfortunes, and 
was not far from fifty — was to be introduced to — whom ? The 
Emperor of Austria ! The sole remaining wish of the heart of one 
who ought to have been thinking of the grave and judgment, was 
to be introduced to the miscreant who had caused the blood of 
noble Hungarian females to be whipped out of their shoulders, 
for no other crime than devotion to their country, and its tall and 
heroic sons. The middle classes — of course there are some ex- 
ceptions — admire the aristocracy, and consider them pinks, the 


* Genteel with them seems to be synonymous with Gentile and Gentoo ; if so, 
the manner in which it has been applied for ages ceases to surprise, for genteel is 
heathenish. Ideas of barbaric pearl and gold, glittering armour, plumes, tortures, 
blood-shedding, and lust, should always be connected with it. Wace, in his grand 
Norman poem, calls the Baron Genteel ; — 

“ La furent li gentil Baron,” etc. 

And he certainly could not have applied the word better than to the strong Norman 
thief, armed cap-a-pie without one particle of ruth or generosity ; for a person to 
be a pink of gentility, that is heathenism, should have no such feelings ; and, 
indeed, the admirers of gentility seldom or never associate any such feelings with it. 
It was from the Norman, the worst of all robbers and miscreants, who built strong 
castles, garrisoned them with devils, and tore out poor wretches’ eyes, as the 
Saxon Chronicle says, that the English got their detestable word genteel. What 
could ever have made the English such admirers of gentility, it would be difficult 
to say ; for, during three hundred years, they suffered enough by it. Their genteel 
Norman landlords were their scourgers, their torturers, the plunderers of their 
homes, the dishonourers of their wives, and the deflourers of their daughters. 
Perhaps, after all, fear is at the root of the English veneration for gentility. 

(320) 


APPENDIX, 


321 


1854-] 


aristocracy who admire the Emperor of Austria, and adored the 
Emperor of Russia, till he became old, ugly and unfortunate, 
when their adoration instantly terminated ; for what is more un- 
genteel than age, ugliness and misfortune ! The beau-ideal with 
those of the lower classes, with peasants and mechanics, is some 
flourishing railroad contractor : look, for example, how they 
worship Mr. Flamson. This person makes his grand debut in 
the year ’thirty-nine, at a public meeting in the principal room of 
a country inn. He has come into the neighbourhood with the 
character of a man worth a million pounds, who is to make every- 
body’s fortune ; at this time, however, he is not worth a shilling 
of his own, though he flashes about dexterously three or four 
thousand pounds, part of which sum he has obtained by specious 
pretences, and part from certain individuals who are his con- 
federates. But in the year ’forty-nine, he is really in possession 
of the fortune which he and his agents pretended he was worth ten 
years before — he is worth a million pounds. By what means has 
he come by them? By railroad contracts, for which he takes 
care to be paid in hard cash before he attempts to perform them, 
and to carry out which he makes use of the sweat and blood of 
wretches who, since their organisation, have introduced crimes 
and language into England to which it was previously almost a 
stranger — by purchasing, with paper, shares by hundreds in the 
schemes to execute which he contracts, and which are of his own 
devising; which shares he sells as soon as they are at a high 
premium, to which they are speedily forced by means of paragraphs, 
inserted by himself and agents, in newspapers devoted to his 
interest, utterly reckless of the terrible depreciation to which they 
are almost instantly subjected. But he is worth a million pounds, 
there can be no doubt of the fact — he has not made people’s 
fortunes, at least those whose fortunes it was said he would make ; 
he has made them away ; but his own he has made, emphatically 
made it ; he is worth a million pounds. Hurrah for the 
millionnaire ! The clown who views the pandemonium of red 
brick which he has built on the estate which he has purchased in 
the neighbourhood of the place of his grand debut in which every 
species of architecture, Greek, Indian and Chinese, is employed 
in caricature — who hears of the grand entertainment he gives at 
Christmas in the principal dining-room, the hundred wax-candles, 
the waggon-load of plate, and the oceans of wine which form parts 
of it, and above all the two ostrich poults, one at the head, and 
the other at the foot of the table, exclaims : “ Well ! if he a’n’t 
bang up, I don’t know who be ; why he beats my lor^ hollow !” 


322 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. IV. 


The mechanic of the borough town, who sees him dashing through 
the streets in an open landau, drawn by four milk-white horses, 
amidst its attendant out-riders ; his wife, a monster of a woman, 
by his side, stout as the wife of Tamerlane, who weighed twenty 
stone, and bedizened out like her whose person shone with the 
jewels of plundered Persia, stares with silent wonder, and at last 
exclaims: “That’s the man for my vote!” You tell the clown 
that the man of the mansion has contributed enormously to cor- 
rupt the rural innocence of England ; you point to an incipient 
branch railroad, from around which the accents of Gomorrah are 
sounding, and beg him to listen for a moment, and then close his 
ears. Hodge scratches his head and says : “ Well, I have nothing 
to say to that ; all I known is that he is bang up, and I wish I 
were he ” ; perhaps he will add — a Hodge has been known to add 
— “ He has been kind enough to put my son on that very rail- 
road ; ’tis true the company is somewhat queer, and the work 
rather killing, but he gets there half a crown a day, whereas from 
the farmers he would only get eighteenpence.” You remind the 
mechanic that the man in the landau has been the ruin of thou- 
sands, and you mention people whom he himself knows, people 
in various grades of life, widows and orphans amongst them, 
whose little all he has dissipated, and whom he has reduced to 
beggary by inducing them to become sharers in his delusive 
schemes. But the mechanic says : “ Well, the more fools they to 
let themselves be robbed. But I don’t call that kind of thing 
robbery, I merely call it out-witting ; and everybody in this free 
country has a right to outwit others if he can. What a turn-out 
he has 1 ” One was once heard to add ; “I never saw a more 
genteel-looking man in all my life except one> and that was a 
gentleman’s walley, vv^ho was much like him. It is true he is 
rather undersized, but then, madam, you know, makes up for all,” 


CHAPTER V. 


SUBJECT OF GENTILITY CONTINUED. 

In the last chapter have been exhibited specimens of gentility, so 
considered by different classes ; by one class, power, youth and 
epaulets are considered the ne phis ultra of gentility ; by another 
class, pride, stateliness and title ; by another, wealth and flaming 
tawdriness. But what constitutes a gentleman ? It is easy to 
say at once what constitutes a gentleman, and there are no 
distinctions in what is gentlemanly,* as there are in what is genteel. 
The characteristics of a gentleman are high feeling — a determina- 
tion never to take a cowardly advantage of another— a liberal 
education — absence of narrow views — generosity and courage, 
propriety of behaviour. Now a person may be genteel according 
to one or another of the three standards described above, and 
not possess one of the characteristics of a gentleman. Is the 
emperor a gentleman, with sjmtters of blood on his clothes, 
scourged from the backs of noble Hungarian women ? Are the 
aristocracy gentlefolks, who admire him ? Is Mr. Flamson a 
gentleman, although he has a million pounds? No! cowardly 
miscreants, admirers of cowardly miscreants, and people who 
make a million pounds by means compared with which those 
employed to make fortunes by the getters up of the South Sea 
Bubble might be called honest dealing, are decidedly not gentle- 
folks. Now as it is clearly demonstrable that a person may be 
perfectly genteel according to some standard or other, and yet be 
no gentleman, so is it demonstrable that a person may have no 
pretensions to gentility, and yet be a gentleman. For example, 
there is Lavengro ! Would the admirers of the emperor, or the 
admirers of those who admire the emperor, or the admirers of 
Mr. Flamson, call him genteel ? and gentility with them is every- 
thing I Assuredly they would not ; and assuredly they would 
consider him respectively as a being to be shunned, despised, or 

* Gentle and’ gentlemanly may be derived from the same root as genteel ; but 
nothing can be more distinct from the mere genteel, than the ideas which enlight- 
ened minds associate with these words. Gentle and gentlemanly mean something 
kind and genial ; genteel, that which is glittering or gaudy. A person can be a 
gentleman in rags, but nobody can be genteel. 


324 


APPENDIX, 


[chap. V. 


hooted. Genteel ! Why at one time he is a hack author — writes 
reviewals for eighteenpence a page — edits a Newgate chronicle. 
At another he wanders the country with a face grimy from 
occasionally mending kettles ; and there is no evidence that his 
clothes are not seedy and torn, and his shoes down at the heel ; 
but by what process of reasoning will they prove that he is no 
gentleman? Is he not learned? Has he not generosity and 
courage? Whilst a hack author, does he pawn the books en- 
trusted to him to review ? Does he break his word to his publisher ? 
Does he write begging letters ? Does he get clothes or lodgings 
without paying for them ? Again, whilst a wanderer, does he 
insult helpless women on the road with loose proposals or ribald 
discourse? Does he take what is not his own from the hedges ? 
Does he play on the fiddle, or make faces in public-houses, in 
order to obtain pence or beer? or does he call for liquor, swallow 
it, and then say to a widowed landlady, “ Mistress, I have no 
brass?” In a word, what vice and crime does he perpetrate — 
what low acts does he commit? Therefore, with his endowments, 
who will venture to say that he is no gentleman ? — unless it be an 
admirer of Mr. Flamson — a clown — who will, perhaps, shout : 
“ I say he is no gentleman ; for who can be a gentleman who 
keeps no gig ? ” 

The indifference exhibited by Lavengro for what is merely 
genteel, compared with his solicitude never to infringe the strict 
laws of honour, should read a salutary lesson. The generality of 
his countrymen are far more careful not to transgress the customs 
of what they call gentility, than to violate the laws of honour or 
morality. They will shrink from carrying their own carpet-bag, 
and from speaking to a person in seedy raiment, whilst to matters 
of much higher importance they are shamelessly indifferent. Not 
so Lavengro ; he will do anything that he deems convenient, or 
which strikes his fancy, provided it does not outrage decency, or 
is unallied to profligacy ; is not ashamed to speak to a beggar in 
rags, and will associate with anybody, provided he can gratify a 
laudable curiosity. He has no abstract love for what is low, or 
what the world calls low. He sees that many things which the 
world looks down upon are valuable, so he prizes much which 
the world contemns ; he sees that many things which the world 
admires are contemptible, so he despises much which the world 
does not; but when the world prizes what is really excellent, he 
does not contemn it, because the world regards it. If he learns 
Irish, which all the world scoffs at, he likewise learns Italian, 
which all the world melts at. If he learns Gypsy, the language 


APPENDIX. 


3^5 


1854-] 


of the tattered tent, he likewise learns Greek, the language of the 
college hall. If he learns smithery, he also learns — ah! what 
does he learn to set against smithery? — the law? No; he does 
not learn the law, which, by the way, is not very genteel. Swim- 
ming? Yes, he learns to swim. Swimming, however, is not 
genteel ; and the world — at least the genteel part of it — acts very 
wisely in setting its face against it ; for to swim you must be 
naked, and how would many a genteel person look without 
his clothes ? Come, he learns horsemanship ; a very genteel 
accomplishment, which every genteel person would gladly possess, 
though not all genteel people do. 

Again as to associates : if he holds communion when a boy 
with Muftagh, the scarecrow of an Irish academy, he associates 
in after life with Francis Ardry, a rich and talented young Irish 
gentleman about town. If he accepts an invitation from Mr. 
Petulengro to his tent, he has no objection to go home with a 
rich genius to dinner ; who then will say that he prizes a thing or 
a person because they are ungenteel ? That he is not ready to 
take up with everything that is ungenteel he gives a proof, when 
he refuses, though on the brink of starvation, to become bonnet 
to the thimble-man, an office, which, though profitable, is posi- 
tively ungenteel. Ah 1 but some sticker-up for gentility will 
exclaim : “ The hero did not refuse this office from an insur- 
mountable dislike to its ungentility, but merely from a feeling of 
principle ”. Well I the writer is not fond of argument, and he will 
admit that such was the case ; he admits that it was a love of 
principle, rather than an over-regard for gentility, which prevented 
the hero from accepting, when on the brink of starvation, an 
ungenteel though lucrative office, an office which, the writer begs 
leave to observe, many a person with a great regard for gentility, 
and no particular regard for principle, would in a similar strait 
have accepted ; for when did a mere love for gentility keep a per- 
son from being a dirty scoundrel, when the alternatives apparently 
were “either be a dirty scoundrel or starve?” One thing, how- 
ever, is certain, which is, that Lavengro did not accept the office, 
which if a love for what is low had been his ruling passion he 
certainly would have done ; consequently, he refuses to do one 
thing which no genteel person would willingly do, even as he 
does many things which every genteel person would gladly do, 
for example, speaks Italian, rides on horseback, associates with 
a fashionable young man, dines with a rich genius, et cetera. 
Yet — and it cannot be minced — he and gentility with regard to many 
things are at strange divergency; he shrinks from many things 


appendix. 


[cttAP. V. 


326 


at which gentility placidly hums a tune, or approvingly simpers, 
and does some things at which gentility positively shrinks. He 
will not run into debt for clothes or lodgings, which he might do 
without any scandal to gentility ; he will not receive money from 
Francis Ardry, and go to Brighton with the sister of Annette Le 
Noir, though there is nothing ungenteel in borrowing money 
from a friend, even when you never intend to repay him, and 
something poignantly genteel in going to a watering-place with 
a gay young Frenchwoman ; but he has no objection, after raising 
twenty pounds by the sale of that extraordinary work Joseph 
Sell^ to set off into the country, mend kettles under hedge-rows, 
and make pony and donkey shoes in a dingle. Here, perhaps, 
some plain, well-meaning person will cry — and with much appar- 
ent justice — how can the writer justify him in this act? What 
motive, save a love for what is low, could induce him to do such 
things? Would the writer have everybody who is in need of 
recreation go into the country, mend kettles under hedges, and 
make pony shoes in dingles? To such an observation the writer 
would answer, that Lavengro had an excellent motive in doing 
what he did, but that the writer is not so unreasonable as to wish 
everybody to do the same. It is not everybody who can mend 
kettles. It is not everybody who is in similar circumstances to 
those in which Lavengro was. Lavengro flies from London and 
hack authorship, and takes to the roads from fear of consumption ; 
it is expensive to put up at inns, and even at public-houses, and 
Lavengro has not much money ; so he buys a tinker’s cart and 
apparatus, and sets up as tinker, and subsequently as blacksmith ; 
a person living in a tent, or in anything else, must do something 
or go mad ; Lavengro had a mind, as he himself well knew, with 
some slight tendency to madness, and had he not employed 
himself, he must have gone wild ; so to employ himself he drew 
upon one of his resources, the only one available at the time. 
Authorship had nearly killed him, he was sick of reading, and 
had besides no books ; but he possessed the rudiments of an art 
akin to tinkering ; he knew something of smithery, having served a 
kind of apprenticeship in Ireland to a fairy smith ; so he draws upon 
his smithery to enable him to acquire tinkering, and through the 
help which it affords him, owing to its connection with tinkering, 
he speedily acquires that craft, even as he had speedily ac- 
quired Welsh, owing to its connection with Irish, which language 
he possessed ; and with tinkering he amuses himself until he lays it 
aside to resume smithery. A man who has any innocent resource, 
has quite as much right to draw upon it in need, as he has upon 


APPENDIX. 


327 


1854-] 


a banker in whose hands he has placed a sum; Lavengro turns 
to advantage, under particular circumstances, a certain resource 
which he has, but people who are not so forlorn as Lavengro, 
and have not served the same apprenticeship which he had, are 
not advised to follow his example. Surely he was better employed 
in plying the trades of tinker and smith than in having resource 
to vice, in running after milk-maids, for example. Running after 
milk- maids is by no means an ungenteel rural diversion ; but let 
any one ask some respectable casuist (The Bishop of London for 
example), whether Lavengro was not far better employed, when 
in the country, at tinkering and smithery than he would have 
been in running after all the milk-maids in Cheshire, though tinker- 
ing is in general considered a very ungenteel employment, and 
smithery little better, notwithstanding that an Orcadian poet, 
who wrote in Norse about eight hundred years ago, reckons the 
latter among nine noble arts which he possessed, naming it along 
with playing at chess, on the harp, and ravelling runes, or as the 
original has it, “ treading runes ” — that is, compressing them into 
a small compass by mingling one letter with another, even as the 
Turkish caligraphists ravel the Arabic letters, more especially 
those who write talismans. 

Nine arts have I, all noble ; 

I play at chess so free, 

At ravelling runes I’m ready, 

At books and smithery ; 

I’m skill’d o’er ice at skimming 
On skates, I shoot and row. 

And few at harping match me. 

Or minstrelsy, I trow. 

But though Lavengro takes up smithery, which, though the 
Orcadian ranks it with chess-playing and harping, is certainly 
somewhat of a grimy art, there can be no doubt that, had he 
been wealthy and not so forlorn as he was, he would have turned 
to many things, honourable, of course, in preference. He has 
no objection to ride a fine horse when he has the opportunity : 
he has his day-dream of making a fortune of two hundred 
thousand pounds by becoming -a merchant and doing business 
after the Armenian fashion; and there can be no doubt that he 
would have been glad to wear fine clothes, provided he had had 
sufficient funds to authorise him in wearing them. For the sake 
of wandering the country and plying the hammer and tongs, he 
would not have refused a commission in the service of that 
illustrious monarch George the Fourth, provided he had thought 


328 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. V. 


that he could live on his pay, and not be forced to run in debt to 
tradesmen, without any hope of paying them, for clothes and 
luxuries, as many highly genteel officers in that honourable 
service were in the habit of doing. For the sake of tinkering, 
he would certainly not have refused a secretaryship of an embassy 
to Persia, in which he might have turned his acquaintance with 
Persian, Arabic, and the Lord only knows what other languages, 
to account. He took to tinkering and smithery, because no 
better employments were at his command. No war is waged in 
the book against rank, wealth, fine clothes or dignified employ- 
ments ; it is shown, however, that a person may be a gentleman 
and a scholar without them. Rank, wealth, fine clothes and 
dignified employments, are no doubt very fine things, but they 
are merely externals, they do not make a gentleman, they add 
external grace and dignity to the gentleman and scholar, but 
they make neither ; and is it not better to be a gentleman without 
them than not a gentleman with them? Is not Lavengro, when 
he leaves London on foot with twenty pounds in his pocket, en- 
titled to more respect than Mr. Flamson flaming in his coach with 
a million ? And is not even the honest jockey at Horncastle, who 
offers a fair price to Lavengro for his horse, entitled to more than the 
scoundrel lord, who attempts to cheat him of one-fourth of its value. 

Millions, how'ever, seem to think otherwise, by their servile 
adoration of people whom without rank, wealth and fine clothes 
they would consider infamous, but whom possessed of rank, wealth 
and glittering habiliments they seem to admire all the more for 
their profligacy and crimes. Does not a blood-spot, or a lust- 
spot, on the clothes of a blooming emperor, give a kind of zest 
to the genteel young god? Do not the pride, superciliousness 
and selfishness of a certain aristocracy make it all the more re- 
garded by its worshippers ? and do not the clownish and gutter- 
blood admirers of Mr. Flamson like him all the more because 
they are conscious that he is a knave? If such is the case — and 
alas ! is it not the case ? — they cannot be too frequently told that 
fine clothes, wealth and titles adorn a person in proportion as he 
adorns them ; that if worn by the magnanimous and good they 
are ornaments indeed, but if by the vile and profligate they are 
merely san benitos, and only serve to make their infamy doubly 
apparent ; and that a person in seedy raiment and tattered hat, 
possessed of courage, kindness and virtue, is entitled to more 
respect from those to whom his virtues are manifested than any 
cruel profligate emperor, selfish aristocrat, or knavish millionnaire 
in the world. 


APPENDIX. 


3^9 


1854-] 


The writer has no intention of saying that all in England are 
affected with the absurd mania for gentility ; nor is such a state- 
ment made in the book ; it is shown therein that individuals of 
various classes can prize a gentleman, notwithstanding seedy 
raiment, dusty shoes or tattered hat — for example, the young 
Irishman, the rich genius, the postillion, and his employer. 
Again, when the life of the hero is given to the world, amidst 
the howl about its lowness and vulgarity, raised by the servile 
crew whom its independence of sentiment has stung, more than 
one powerful voice has 'been heard testifying approbation of its 
learning and the purity of its morality. That there is some salt 
in England, minds not swayed by mere externals, he is fully 
convinced ; if he were not, he would spare himself the trouble 
of writing ; but to the fact that the generality of his countrymen 
are basely grovelling before the shrine of what they are pleased 
to call gentility, he cannot shut his eyes. 

Oh ! what a clever person that Cockney was, who, travelling 
in the Aberdeen railroad carriage, after edifying the company 
with his remarks on various subjects, gave it as his opinion that 

Lieutenant P would, in future, be shunned by all respectable 

society ! And what a simple person that elderly gentleman was, 
who, abruptly starting, asked in rather an authoritative voice, 

“ And why should Lieutenant P be shunned by respectable 

society ? ” and who, after entering into what was said to be a 
masterly analysis of the entire evidence of the case, concluded 
by stating, “that having been accustomed to all kinds of evidence 
all his life, he had never known a case in which the accused had 
obtained a more complete and triumphant justification than Lieu- 
tenant P had done in the late trial ”. 

Now the Cockney, who is said to have been a very foppish 
Cockney, w'as perfectly right in what he said, and therein mani- 
fested a knowledge of the English mind and character, and likewise 
of the modern Pmglish language, to which his catechist, who, it 
seems, was a distinguished member of the Scottish bar, could lay 
no pretensions. The Cockney knew what the Lord of Session 
knew not, that the British public is gentility crazy, and he knew, 
moreover, that gentility and respectability are synonymous. No 
one in England is genteel or respectable that is “ looked at,” who 
is the victim of oppression ; he may be pitied for a time, but when 
did not pity terminate in contempt ? A poor harmless young 
officer — but why enter into the details of the infamous case ? they 
are but too well known, and if ever cruelty, pride and cowardice, and 
things much worse than even cruelty, cowardice and pride were 


330 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. V. 


brought to light, and, at the same time, countenanced, they were 
in that case. What availed the triumphant justification of the 
poor victim? There was at first a roar of indignation against 
his oppressors, but how long did it last? He had been turned 
out of the service, they remained in it with their red coats and 
epaulets ; he was merely the son of a man who had rendered 
good service to his country ; they were, for the most part, highly 
connected — they were in the extremest degree genteel, he quite 
the reverse ; so the nation wavered, considered, thought the 
genteel side was the safest after all, and then with the cry of 
“ Oh ! there is nothing like gentility,” ratted bodily. Newspaper 
and public turned against the victim, scouted him, apologised for 
the — what should they be called ? — who were not only admitted 
into the most respectable society, but courted to come, the spots 
not merely of wine on their military clothes, giving them a kind 
of poignancy. But there is a God in heaven ; the British glories 
are tarnished — Providence has never smiled on British arms since 
that case — oh ! Balaklava ! thy name interpreted is net of fishes, 
and well dost thou deserve that name. How many a scarlet 
golden fish has of late perished in the mud amidst thee, cursing 
the genteel service, and the genteel leader which brought him to 
such a doom. 

Whether the rage for gentility is most prevalent amongst the 
upper, middle or lower classes it is difficult to say ; the priest in 
the text seems to think that it is exhibited in the most decided 
manner in the middle class; it is the writer’s opinion, however, 
that in no class is it more strongly developed than in the lower : 
what they call being well-born goes a great way amongst them, 
but the possession of money much farther, whence Mr. Flamson’s 
influence over them. Their rage against, and scorn for, any person 
who by his courage and talents has advanced himself in life, and 
still remains poor, are indescribable; “ he is no better than our- 
selves,” they say, “ why should he be above us ? ” — for they have 
no conception that anybody has a right to ascendency over them- 
selves except by birth or money. This feeling amongst the vulgar 
has been, to a certain extent, the bane of the two services, naval 
and military. The writer does not make this assertion rashly ; he 
observed this feeling at work in the army when a child, and he 
has good reason for believing that it was as strongly at work in the 
navy at the same time, and is still as prevalent in both. Why 
are not brave men raised from the ranks ? is frequently the cry ; 
why are not brave sailors promoted ? the Lord help brave soldiers 
and sailors who are promoted ; they have less to undergo from the 


APPENDIX. 


1854-] 


33Jt 


high airs of their brother officers, and those are hard enough to 
endure, than from the insolence of the men. Soldiers and sailors 
promoted to command are said to be in general tyrants ; in nine 
cases out of ten, when they are tyrants, they have been obliged 
to have recourse to extreme severity in order to protect themselves 
from the insolence and mutinous spirit of the men, — “ He is no 
better than ourselves : shoot him, bayonet him, or fling him over- 
board ! ” they say of some obnoxious individual raised above them 
by his merit. Soldiers and sailors in general, will bear any 
amount of tyranny from a lordly sot, or the son of a man who has 
“plenty of brass ’’ — their own term — but will mutiny against the 
just orders of a skilful and brave officer who “ is no better than 
themselves ”. There was the affair of the Bounty., for example : 
Bligh was one of the best seamen that ever trod deck, and one of 
the bravest of men ; proofs of his seamanship he gave by steering, 
amidst dreadful weather, a deeply laden boat for nearly four 
thousand rhiles over an almost unknown ocean — of his bravery, 
at the fight of Copenhagen, one of the most desperate ever fought, 
of which after Nelson he was the hero : he was, moreover, not an 
unkind man ; but the crew of the Bounty^ mutinied against 
him, and set him half naked in an open boat, with certain of his 
men who remained faithful to him, and ran away with the ship. 
Their principal motive for doing so was an idea, whether true or 
groundless the writer cannot say, that Bligh was “ no better than 
themselves ” ; he was certainly neither a lord’s illegitimate, nor 
possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The writer knows what he 
is writing about, having been acquainted in his early years with 
an individual who was turned adrift with Bligh, and who died 
about the year ’22, a lieutenant in the navy, in a provincial town 
in which the writer was brought up. The ringleaders in the 
mutiny were two scoundrels, Christian and Young, who had great 
influence with the crew, because they were genteelly connected. 
Bligh, after leaving the Bounty, had considerable difficulty in 
managing the men who had shared his fate, because they con- 
sidered themselves “as good men as he,” notwithstanding, that to 
his conduct and seamanship they had alone to look, under Heaven, 
for salvation from the ghastly perils that surrounded them. Bligh 
himself, in his journal, alludes to this feeling. Once, when he and 
his companions landed on a desert island, one of them said, with 
a mutinous look, that ’he considered himself “ as good a man as 
he ” ; Bligh, seizing a cutlass, called upon him to take another and 
defend himself, whereupon the man said that Bligh was going to 
kill him, and made all manner of concessions ; now why did this 


332 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. V. 


fellow consider himself as good a man as Bligh ? Was he as good 
a seaman ? no, nor a tenth part as good. As brave a man ? no, 
nor a tenth part as brave ; and of these facts he was perfectly well 
aware, but bravery and seamanship stood for nothing with him, as 
they still stand with thousands of his class ; Bligh was not genteel 
by birth or money, therefore Bligh was no better than himself. 
Had Bligh, before he sailed, got a twenty-thousand pound prize 
in the lottery, he would have experienced no insolence from this 
fellow, for there would have been no mutiny in the Bounty, 
“ He is our betters,” the crew would have said, “and it is our 
duty to obey him.” 

The wonderful power of gentility in England is exemplified in 
nothing more than in what it is producing amongst Jews, Gypsies 
and Quakers. It is breaking up their venerable communities. 
All the better, some one will say. Alas ! alas ! It is making the 
wealthy Jews forsake the synagogue for the opera-house, or the 
gentility chapel, in which a disciple of Mr. Platitude, in a white 
surplice, preaches a sermon at noon-day from a desk, on each 
side of which is a flaming taper. It is making them abandon 
their ancient literature, their Mischna^ their Gemara, their Zohar^ 
for gentility novels. The Young Duke, the most unexceptionably 
genteel book ever written, being the principal favourite. It makes 
the young Jew ashamed of the young Jewess, it makes her ashamed 
of the young Jew. The young Jew marries an opera dancer, or 
if the dancer will not have him, as is frequently the case, the cast- 
oil Miss of the honourable Spencer So-and-so. It makes the 
young Jewess accept the honourable offer of a cashiered lieutenant 
of the Bengal Native Infantry ; or, if such a person does not come 
forward, the dishonourable offer of a cornet of a regiment of crack 
hussars. It makes poor Jews, male and female, forsake the 
synagogue for the sixpenny theatre or penny hop ; the Jew to take 
up with an Irish female of loose character, and the Jewess with a 
musician of the Guards, or the Tipperary servant of Captain Mulli- 
gan. With respect to the gypsies, it is making the women what they 
never were before — harlots ; and the men what they never were 
l)efore — careless fathers and husbands. It has made the daughter 
of Ursula, the chaste, take up with the base drummer of a wild- 
beast show. It makes Gorgiko Brown, the gypsy man, leave his 
tent and his old wife, of an evening, and thrust himself into society 
which could well dispense with him. “ Brother,” said Mr. Petu- 
lengro the other day to the Romany Rye, after telling him many 
things connected with the decadence of gypsyism, “there is one 
Gorgiko Brown, who, with a face as black as a tea-kettle, wishes 


APPENDIX. 


333 


1854-] 


to be mistaken for a Christian tradesman ; he goes into the par- 
lour of a third-rate inn of an evening, calls for rum and water, 
and attempts to enter into conversation with the company 
about politics and business ; the company flout him or give 
him the cold shoulder, or perhaps complain to the landlord, 
who comes and asks him what business he has in the parlour, 
telling him if he wants to drink to go into the tap-room, and 
perhaps collars him and kicks him out, provided he refuses to 
move.” With respect to the Quakers, it makes the young 
people like the young Jews, crazy after gentility diversions, 
worship, marriages or connections, and makes old Pease do 
what it makes Gorgiko Brown do, thrust himself into society 
which could well dispense with him, and out of which he is not 
kicked, because unlike the gyspy he is not poor. The writer 
would say much more on these points, but want of room prevents 
him ; he must therefore request the reader to have patience until 
he can lay before the world a pamphlet, which he has been long 
meditating, to be entitled “ Remarks on the strikingly similar 
Effects which a Love for Gentility has produced, and is producing, 
amongst Jews, Gypsies and Quakers”. 

The priest in the book has much to say on the subject of this 
gentility-nonsense ; no person can possibly despise it more thor- 
oughly than that very remarkable individual seems to do, yet he 
hails its prevalence with pleasure, knowing the benefits which will 
result from it to the Church of which he is the sneering slave. 
“The English are mad after gentility,” says he; “well, all the 
better for us ; their religion for a long time past has been a plain 
and simple one, and consequently by no means genteel ; they’ll 
quit it for ours, which is the perfection of what they admire ; 
with which Templars, Hospitalers, mitred abbots. Gothic abbeys, 
long-drawn aisles, golden censers, incense,'et cetera, are connected ; 
nothing, or next to nothing, of Christ, it is true, but weighed in 
the balance against gentility, where will Christianity be? why, 
kicking against the beam — ho ! ho ! ” And in connection with 
the gentility-nonsense, he expatiates largely, and with much con- 
tempt, on a species of literature by which the interests of his Church 
in England have been very much advanced — all genuine priests 
have a thorough contempt for everything which tends to advance 
the interests of their Church — this literature is made up of pseudo 
Jacobitism, Charlie o’er the waterism, or nonsense about Charlie 
o’er the water. And the writer will now take the liberty of saying 
a few words about it on his own account. 


CHAPTER VI. 


ON SCOTCH GENTILITY NONSENSE. 

Of the literature just alluded to Scott was the inventor. It is 
founded on the fortunes and misfortunes of the Stuart family, of 
which Scott was the zealous defender and apologist, doing all that 
in his power lay to represent the members of it as noble, chivalrous, 
high-minded, unfortunate princes ; though, perhaps, of all the royal 
families that ever existed upon earth, this family was the worst. It 
was unfortunate enough, it is true ; but it owed its misfortunes en- 
tirely to its crimes, viciousness, bad faith, and cowardice. Nothing 
will be said of it here until it made its appearance in England to 
occupy the English throne. 

The first of the family which we have to do with, James, was 
a dirty, cowardly miscreant, of whom the less said the better. 
His son, Charles the First, was a tyrant — exceedingly cruel and 
revengeful, but weak and dastardly ; he caused a poor fellow to 
be hanged in London, who was not his subject, because he had 
heard that the unfortunate creature had once bit his own glove at 
Cadiz, in Spain, at the mention of his name ; and he permitted 
his own bull-dog, Strafford, to be executed by his own enemies, 
though the only crime of Strafford was, that he had barked furiously 
at those enemies, and had worried two or three of them, when 
Charles shouted, “ Fetch ’em ” . He was a bitter, but yet a des- 
picable enemy, and the coldest and most worthless of friends ; 
for though he always hoped to be able, some time or other, to 
hang his enemies, he was always ready to curry favour with them, 
more especially if he could do so at the expense of his friends. 
He was the haughtiest, yet meanest of mankind. He once caned 
a young nobleman for appearing before him in the drawing-room 
not dressed exactly according to the court etiquette ; yet he con- 
descended to flatter and compliment him who, from principle, 
was his bitterest enemy, namely Harrison, when the republican 
colonel was conducting him as a prisoner to London. His bad 
faith was notorious ; it was from abhorrence of the first public 
instance which he gave of his bad faith, his breaking his word to 
the Infanta of Spain, that the poor Hiberno-Spaniard bit his glove 
at Cadiz ; and it was his notorious bad faith which eventually cost 


APPENDIX. 


335 


1854-] 


him his head ; for the Republicans would gladly have spared him, 
provided they could put the slightest confidence in any promise, 
however solemn, which he might have made to them. Of them, 
it would be difficult to say whether they most hated or despised 
him. Religion he had none. One day he favoured Popery ; the 
next, on hearing certain clamours of the people, he sent his wife’s 
domestics back packing to France, because they were Papists. 
Papists, however, should make him a saint, for he was certainly 
the cause of the taking of Rochelle. 

His son, Charles the Second, though he passed his youth in 
the school of adversity, learned no other lesson from it than the 
following, one — take care of yourself, and never do an action, 
either good or bad, which is likely to bring you into any great 
difficulty ; and this maxim he acted up to as soon as he came to 
the throne. He was a Papist, but took especial care not to 
acknowledge his religion, at which he frequently scoffed, till just 
before his last gasp, when he knew that he could lose nothing, 
and hoped to gain everything by it. He was always in want of 
money, but took care not to tax the country beyond all endurable 
bounds ; preferring to such a bold and dangerous course, to be- 
come the secret pensioner of Louis, to whom, in return for his gold, 
he sacrificed the honour and interests of Britain. He was too 
lazy and sensual to delight in playing the part of a tyrant himself ; 
but he never checked tyranny in others save in one instance. 
He permitted beastly butchers to commit unmentionable horrors 
on the feeble, unarmed and disunited Covenanters of Scotland, 
but checked them when they would fain have endeavoured to play 
the same game on the numerous united, dogged and warlike 
Independents of England. To show his filial piety, he bade the 
hangman dishonour the corpses of some of his father’s judges, 
before whom, when alive, he ran like a screaming hare ; but per- 
mitted those who had lost their all in supporting his father’s cause, 
to pine in misery and want. He would give to a painted harlot 
a thousand pounds for a loathsome embrace, and to a player or 
buffoon a hundred for a trumpery pun, but would refuse a penny 
to the widow or orphan of an old Royalist soldier. He was the 
personification of selfishness ; and as he loved and cared for no 
one, so did no one love or care for him. So little had he gained 
the respect or affection of those who surrounded him, that after 
his body had undergone an after-death examination, parts of it 
were thrown down the sinks of the palace, to become eventually 
the prey of the swine and ducks of Westminster. 

His brother, who succeeded him, James the Second, was a 


336 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. VI. 


Papist, but sufificiently honest to acknowledge his Popery, but 
upon the whole, he was a poor creature ; though a tyrant, he was 
cowardly ; had he not been a coward he would never have lost his 
throne. There were plenty of lovers of tyranny in England who 
would have stood by him, provided he would have stood by them, 
and would,, though not Papists, have encouraged him in his 
attempt to bring back England beneath the sway of Rome, and 
perhaps would eventually have become Papists themselves ; but 
the nation raising a cry against him, and his son-in-law, the Prince 
of Orange, invading the country, he forsook his friends, of whom 
he had a host, but for whom he cared little — left his throne, for 
which he cared a great deal — and Popery in England, for which 
he cared yet more, to their fate, and escaped to France, from 
whence, after taking a little heart, he repaired to Ireland, where 
he was speedily joined by a gallant army of Papists whom he 
basely abandoned at the Boyne, running away in a most lament- 
able condition, at the time when by showing a little courage he 
might have enabled them to conquer. This worthy, in his last 
will, bequeathed his heart to England, his right arm to Scotland, 
and his bowels to Ireland. What the English and Scotch said to 
their respective bequests is not known, but it is certain that an 
old Irish priest, supposed to have been a great grand-uncle of the 
present Reverend Father Murtagh, on hearing of the bequest to 
Ireland, fell into a great passion, and having been brought up at 
“ Paris and Salamanca,” expressed his indignation in the following 
strain: Malditas sean tus trip as I teniamos bastante del olor de 

tus tripas al tiempo de tu huida de la bat alia del Boyne I ” 

His son, generally called the Old Pretender, though born in 
England, was carried in his infancy to France, where he was 
brought up in the strictest principles of Popery, which principles, 
however, did not prevent him becoming (when did they ever 
prevent any one ?) a worthless and profligate scoundrel ; there are 
some doubts as to the reality of his being a son of James, which 
doubts are probably unfounded, the grand proof of his legitimacy 
being the thorough baseness of his character. It was said of his 
father that he could speak well, and it may be said of him that he 
could write well, the only thing he could do which was worth 
doing, always supposing that there is any merit in being able to 
write. He was of a mean appearance, and, like his father, 
pusillanimous to a degree. The meaness of his appearance dis- 
gusted, and his pusillanimity discouraged, the Scotch when he 
made his appearance amongst them in the year 1715, some time 
after the standard of rebellion had been hoisted by Mar. He 


1854 -] 


APPENDIX. 


337 


only stayed a short time in Scotland, and then, seized with panic, 
retreated to France, leaving his friends to shift for themselves as 
they best could. He died a pensioner of the Pope. 

The son of this man, Charles Edward, of whom so much in 
latter years has been said and written, was a worthless, ignorant 
youth, and a profligate and illiterate old man. When young, the 
best that can be said of him is, that he had occasionally springs 
of courage, invariably at the wrong time and place, which merely 
served to lead his friends into inextricable difficulties. When old, 
he was loathsome and contemptible to both friend and foe. His 
wife loathed him, and for the most terrible of reasons ; she did 
not pollute his couch, for to do that was impossible — he had 
made it so vile ; but she betrayed it, inviting to it not only Alfieri 
the Filthy, but the coarsest grooms. Doctor King, the warmest 
and almost last adherent of his family, said that there was not a 
vice or crime of which he was not guilty; as for his foes, they 
scorned to harm him even when in their power. In the year 
1745 he came down from the Highlands of Scotland, which had 
long been a focus of rebellion. He was attended by certain clans 
of the Highlands, desperadoes used to free-bootery from their 
infancy, and, consequently, to the use of arms, and possessed of a 
certain species of discipline ; with these he defeated at Prestonpans 
a body of men called soldiers, but who were in reality peasants 
and artisans, levied about a month before, without discipline 
or confidence in each other, and who. were miserably massacred 
by the Highland army ; he subsequently invaded England, nearly 
destitute of regular soldiers, and penetrated as far as Derby, from 
which place he retreated on learning that regular forces which had 
been hastily recalled from Flanders were coming against him, 
with the Duke of Cumberland at their head ; he was pursued, 
and his rear guard overtaken and defeated by the dragoons gf the 
duke at Clifton, from which place the rebels retreated in great 
confusion across the Eden into Scotland, where they commenced 
dancing Highland reels and strathspeys on the bank of the river, 
for joy at their escape, whilst a number of wretched girls, paramours 
of some of them, were perishing in the waters of the swollen river 
in an attempt to follow them ; they themselves passed over by 
eighties and by hundreds, arm in arm, for mutual safety, without 
the loss of a man, but they left the poor paramours to shift for 
themselves, nor did any of these canny people after passing the 
stream dash back to rescue a single female life — no, they were 
too well employed upon the bank in dancing strathspeys to the 
tune of “ Charlie o’er the water ” . It was, indeed, Charlie o’er 

22 


33^ 


APPENDIX. 


[chap* VI. 


the water, and canny Highlanders o’er the water, but where were 
the poor prostitutes meantime ? In the water. 

The Jacobite farce, or tragedy, was speedily brought to a close 
by the battle of Culloden ; there did Charlie wish himself back 
again o’er the water, exhibiting the most unmistakable signs of 
pusillanimity ; there were the clans cut to pieces, at least those 
who could be brought to the charge, and there fell Giles Mac 
Bean, or as he was called in Gaelic, Giliosa Mac Beathan, a kind 
of giant, six feet four inches and a quarter high, “than whom,” as 
his wife said in a coronach she made upon him, “ no man who 
stood at Cuiloitr was taller ” — Giles Mac Bean the Major of the 
clan Cattan — a great drinker — a great fisher — a great shooter, and 
the champion of the Highland host. 

The last of the Stuarts was a cardinal. 

Such were the Stuarts, such their miserable history. They 
were dead and buried in every sense of the word until Scott 
resuscitated them — how? by the power of fine writing, and by 
calling to his aid that strange divinity, gentility. He wrote 
splendid novels about the Stuarts, in which he represents them as 
unlike what they really were as the graceful and beautiful papillon 
is unlike the hideous and filthy worm. In a word, he made them 
genteel, and that was enough to give them paramount sway over 
the minds of the British people. The public became Stuart-mad, 
and everybody, especially the women, said, “ What a pity it was 
that we hadn’t a Stuart to govern ” . All parties. Whig, Tory or 
Radical, became Jacobite at heart, and admirers of absolute 
power. The Whigs talked about the liberty of the subject, and 
the Radicals about the rights of man still, but neither party cared 
a straw for what it talked about, and mentally swore that, as soon 
as by means of such stuff they could get places, and fill their 
pockets, they would be as Jacobite as the Jacobs themselves. As 
for the Tories, no great change in them was necessary ; everything 
favouring absolutism and slavery being congenial to them. So the 
whole nation, that is, the reading part of the nation, with some 
exceptions, for thank God there has always been some salt in 
England, went over the water to Charlie. But going over to 
Charlie was not enough, they must, or at least, a considerable part 
of them, go over to Rome too, or have a hankering to do so. As 
the priest sarcastically observes in the text, “As all the Jacobs 
were Papists, so the good folks who through Scott’s novels admire 
the Jacobs must be Papists too”. An idea got about that the 
religion of such genteel people as the Stuarts must be the climax 
of gentility, and that idea was quite sufficient. Only let a thing, 


APPENDIX. 


339 


1854-] 


whether temporal or spiritual, be considered genteel in England, 
and if it be not followed it is strange indeed ; so Scott’s writings 
not only made the greater part of the nation Jacobite, but Popish. 

Here some people will exclaim — whose opinions remain sound 
and uncontaminated — what you say is perhaps true with respect 
to the Jacobite nonsense at present so prevalent being derived 
from Scott’s novels, but the Popish nonsense, which people of 
the genteeler classes are so fond of, is derived from Oxford. 
We sent our sons to Oxford nice honest lads, educated in the 
principles of the Church of England, and at the end of the first 
term they came home puppies, talking Popish nonsense, which they 
had learned from the pedants to whose care we had entrusted 
them; ay, not only Popery but Jacobitism, which they hardly 
carried with them from home, for we never heard them talking 
Jacobitism before they had been at Oxford ; but now their con- 
versation is a farrago of Popish and Jacobite stuff — “ Complines 
and Claverse”. Now, what these honest folks say is, to a certain 
extent, founded on fact; the Popery which has overflowed the 
land during the last fourteen or fifteen years, has come immedi- 
ately from Oxford, and likewise some of the Jacobitism, Popish 
and Jacobite nonsense, and little or nothing else, having been 
taught at Oxford for about that number of years. But whence 
did the pedants get the Popish nonsense with which they have 
corrupted youth ? Why, from the same quarter from which they 
got the Jacobite nonsense with which they have inoculated those 
lads who were not inoculated with it before — Scott’s novels. 
Jacobitism and Laudism, a kind of half Popery, had at one time 
been very prevalent at Oxford, but both had been long consigned 
to oblivion there, and people at Oxford cared as little about Laud 
as they did about the Pretender. Both were dead and buried 
there, as everywhere else, till Scott called them out of their graves 
when the pedants of Oxford hailed both — ay, and the Pope, too, 
as soon as Scott had made the old fellow fascinating, through 
particular novels, more especially the Monastery and Abbot. Then 
the quiet, respectable, honourable Church of England would no 
longer do for the pedants of Oxford ; they must belong to a more 
genteel Church — they were ashamed at first to be downright 
Romans — so they would be Lauds. The pale-looking, but ex- 
ceedingly genteel non-juring clergyman in Waverley was a Laud ; 
but they soon became tired of being Lauds, for Laud’s Church, 
gew-gawish and idolatrous as it was, was not sufficiently tinselly 
and idolatrous for them, so they must be Popes, but in a sneaking 
way, still calling themselves Church of England men, in order to 


340 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. VI. 


batten on the bounty of the Church which they were betraying, 
and likewise have opportunities of corrupting such lads as might 
still resort to Oxford with principles uncontaminated. 

So the respectable people, whose opinions are still sound, 
are, to a certain extent, right when they say that the tide of 
Popery, which has flowed over the land, has come from Oxford. 
It did come immediately from Oxford, but how did it get to 
Oxford ? Why, from Scott’s novels. Oh ! that sermon which 
was the first manifestation of Oxford feeling, preached at Oxford 
some time in the year ’38 by a divine of a weak and confused 
intellect, in which Popery was mixed up with Jacobitism ! The 
present writer remembers perfectly well, on reading some extracts 
from it at the time in a newspaper, on the top of a coach, ex- 
claiming — “Why, the simpleton has been pilfering from Walter 
Scott’s novels ! ” 

O Oxford pedants ! Oxford pedants ! ye whose politics and 
religion are both derived from Scott’s novels ! what a pity it is 
that some lad of honest parents, whose mind ye are endeavouring 
to stultify with your nonsense about “ Complines and Claverse,” 
has not the spirit to start up and cry, “ Confound your gibberish ! 
I’ll have none of it. Hurrah for the Church, and the principles 
of my father ! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 


SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

Now what could have induced Scott to write novels tending to 
make people Papists and Jacobites, and in love with arbitrary 
power ? Did he think that Christianity was a gaudy mummery ? 
He did not, he could not, for he had read the Bible ; yet was he 
fond of gaudy mummeries, fond of talking about them. Did he 
believe that the Stuarts were a good family, and fit to govern a 
country like Britain ? He knew that they were a vicious, worthless 
crew, and that Britain was a degraded country as long as they 
swayed the sceptre; but for those facts he cared nothing, they 
governed in a way which he liked, for he had an abstract love of 
despotism, and an abhorrence of everything savouring of freedom 
and the rights of man in general. His favourite political picture 
was a joking, profligate, careless king, nominally absolute — the 
heads of great houses paying court to, but in reality governing, 
that king, whilst revelling with him on the plunder of a nation, 
and a set of crouching, grovelling vassals (the literal meaning of 
vassal is a wretch), who, after allowing themselves to be horse- 
whipped, would take a bone if flung to them, and be grateful ; 
so that in love with mummery, though he knew what Christianity 
was, no wonder he admired such a Church as that of Rome, and 
that which Laud set up ; and by nature formed to be the holder 
of the candle to ancient worm-eaten and profligate families, no 
wonder that all his sympathies were with the Stuarts and their 
dissipated insolent party, and all his hatred directed against those 
who endeavoured to check them in their proceedings, and to 
raise the generality of mankind something above a state of 
vassalage, that is, wretchedness. Those who were born great, 
were, if he could have had his will, always to remain great, 
however worthless their characters. Those who were born low, 
were always to remain so, however great their talents ; though, if 
that rule were carried out, where would he have been himself? 

In the book which he called the History of Napoleon Bonaparte^ 
in which he plays the sycophant to all the legitimate crowned 
heads in Europe, whatever their crimes, vices or miserable 
imbecilities, he, in his abhorrence of everything low which by its 
own vigour makes itself illustrious, calls Murat of th^ sabre the 

(341) 


342 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. VII. 


son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook. It is a pity 
that people who give themselves hoity-toity airs — and the Scotch 
in general are wonderfully addicted to giving themselves hoity- 
toity airs, and checking people better than themselves with their 
birth * and their country — it is a great pity that such people do 
not look at home — son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry- 
cook ! Well, and what was Scott himself? Why, son of a 
pettifogger, of an Edinburgh pettifogger. “ Oh, but Scott was 
descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch, and therefore 

” descended from old cow-stealers, was he ? Well, had he had 

nothing to boast of beyond such a pedigree, he would have lived 
and died the son of a pettifogger, and been forgotten, and deservedly 
so ; but he possessed talents, and by his talents rose like Murat, 
and like him will be remembered for his talents alone, and 
deservedly so. “Yes, but Murat was still the son of a pastry- 
cook, and though he was certainly good at the sabre, and cut his 

way to a throne, still ” Lord ! what fools there are in the 

world; but as no one can be thought anything of in this world 
without a pedigree, the writer will now give a pedigree for Murat, 
of a very different character from the cow-stealing one of Scott, 
but such a one as the proudest he might not disdain to claim. 
Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch — 
was he? Good 1 and Murat was descended from the old Moors 
of Spain, from the Abencerages (sons of the saddle) of Granada. 
The name Murat is Arabic, and is the same as Murad {Ze Desire^ 
or the wished-for one). Scott in his genteel Life of Bonaparte, 
says that “ when Murat was in Egypt, the similarity between the 
name of the celebrated Mameluke Mourad and that of Bonaparte’s 
Meilleur Sabreur was remarked, and became the subject of jest 
amongst the comrades of the gallant Frenchman But the 
writer of the novel of Bonaparte did not know that the names 
were one and the same. Now which was the best pedigree, that 
of the son of the pastry-cook, or that of the son of the pettifogger? 
Which was the best blood ? Let us observe the workings of the 
two bloods. He who had the blood of the “ sons of the saddle ” 
in him, became the wonderful cavalier of the most wonderful 
host that ever went forth to conquest, won for himself a crown, 

* The writer has been checked in print by the Scotch with being a Norfolk 
man. Surely, surely, these latter times have not been exactly the ones in which it 
was expedient for Scotchmen to check the children of any county in England with 
the place of their birth, more especially those who have had the honour of being 
born in Norfolk — times in which British fleets, commanded by Scotchmen, have 
returned laden with anything but laurels from foreign shores. It would have been 
well for Britain had she had the old Norfolk man to despatch to the Baltic or the 
Plack Sea, lately, instead of Scotch admirals. 


APPENDIX. 


343 


1854-] 


and died the death of a soldier, leaving behind him a son, only 
inferior to himself in strength, in prowess, and in horsemanship. 
The descendant of the cow-stealer became a poet, a novel writer, 
the panegyrist of great folk and genteel people ; became insolvent 
because, though an author, he deemed it ungenteel to be mixed 
up with the business part of authorship; died paralytic and 
broken-hearted because he could no longer give entertainments 
to great folks ; leaving behind hipi, amongst other children, who 
were never heard of, a son, who, through his father’s interest, 
had become lieutenant-colonel in a genteel cavalry regiment. A 
son who was ashamed of his father because his father was an 
author ; a son who — paugh — why ask which was the best blood ? 

So, owing to his rage for gentility, Scott must needs become 
the apologist of the Stuarts and their party ; but God made this 
man pay dearly for taking the part of the wicked against the good ; 
for lauding up to the skies the miscreants and robbers, and 
calumniating the noble spirits of Britain, the salt of England, and 
his own country. As God had driven the Stuarts from their 
throne, and their followers from their estates, making them 
vagabonds and beggars on the face of the earth, taking from them 
all they cared for, so did that same God, who knows perfectly 
well how and where to strike, deprive the apologist of that 
wretched crew of all that rendered life pleasant in his eyes, the 
lack of which paralysed him in body and mind, rendered him 
pitiable to others, loathsome to himself, — so much so, that he 
once said, “Where is the beggar who would change places with 
me, notwithstanding all my fame?” Ah! God knows perfectly 
well how to strike. He permitted him to retain all his literary 
fame to the very last — his literary fame for which he cared 
nothing ; but what became of the sweetness of life, his fine house, 
his grand company, and his entertainments? The grand house 
ceased to be his; he was only permitted to live in it on sufferance, 
and whatever grandeur it might still retain, it soon became as 
desolate a looking house as any misanthrope could wish to see 
— where were the grand entertainments and the grand company? 
there are no grand entertainments where there is no money ; no 
lords and ladies where there are no entertainments — and there lay 
the poor lodger in the desolate house, groaning on a bed no longer 
his, smitten by the hand of God in the part where he was most 
vulnerable. Of what use telling such a man to take comfort, for 
he had written the Minstrel and Rob Roy , — telling him to think 
of his literary fame ? Literary fame, indeed 1 he wanted back 
his lost gentility : — 


344 


APPENDIX. 


[CHAF. VII. 


Retain my altar, 

I care nothing for it — but, oh ! touch not my beard. 

— Parny’s War of the Gods. 

He dies, his children die too, and then comes the crowning judg- 
ment of God on what remains of his race and the house which he 
had built. He was not a Papist himself, nor did he wish any 
one belonging to him to be Popish, for he had read enough of 
the Bible to know that no onej^an be saved through Popery, yet 
had he a sneaking affection for it, and would at times in an 
underhand manner, give it a good word both in writing and dis- 
course, because it was a gaudy kind of worship, and ignorance 
and vassalage prevailed so long as it flourished — but he certainly 
did not wish any of his people to become Papists, nor the house 
which he had built to become a Popish house, though the very 
name he gave it savoured of Popery ; but Popery becomes 
fashionable through his novels and poems — the only one that re- 
mains of his race, a female grandchild, marries a person who, 
following the fashion, becomes a Papist, and makes her a Papist 
too. Money abounds with the husband, who buys the house, and 
then the house becomes the rankest Popish house in Britain. A 
superstitious person might almost imagine that one of the old 
Scottish Covenanters, whilst the grand house was being built from 
the profits resulting from the sale of writings favouring Popery 
and persecution, and calumniatory of Scotland’s saints and 
martyrs, had risen from the grave, and banned Scott, his race, 
and his house, by reading a certain Psalm. 

In saying what he has said about Scott, the author has not 
been influenced by any feeling of malice or ill-will, but simply by 
a regard for truth, and a desire to point out to his countrymen 
the harm which has resulted from the perusal of his works ; he 
is not one of those who would depreciate the talents of Scott — he 
admires his talents, both as a prose writer and a poet ; as a poet 
especially he admires him, and believes him to have been by far 
the greatest, with perhaps the exception of Mickiewicz, who only 
wrote for unfortunate Poland, that Europe has given birth to 
during the last hundred years. As a prose writer he admires him 
less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very 
high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause 
of the Stuarts and gentility. What book of fiction of the present 
century can you read twice, with the exception of Waverley 
and Rob Roy 1 There is Pelham it is true, which the writer 
of these lines has seen a Jewess reading in the steppe of De- 
breczin, and which a young Prussian Baron, a great traveller, 
whom he met at Constantinople in ’44 told him he always carried 


APPENDIX. 


345 


1854-] 


in his valise. And, in conclusion, he will say, in order to show 
the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a writer, 
that he did for the spectre of the wretched Pretender what all the 
kings of Europe could not do for his body — placed it on the 
throne of these realms; and for Popery, what Popes and Car- 
dinals strove in vain to do for three centuries — brought back its 
mummeries and nonsense into the temples of the British Isles. 

Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether 
they wrote history so called — poetry so called — or novels — nobody 
would call a book a novel if he could call it anything else — wrote 
Charlie o’er the water nonsense ; and now that he has been dead 
nearly a quarter of a century, there are others daily springing up 
who are striving to imitate Scott in his Charlie o’er the water 
nonsense — for nonsense it is, even when flowing from his pen. 
They, too, must write Jacobite histories, Jacobite songs, and 
Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the scoundrel 
menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and 
retailing their masters’ conversation, do they cut as Walter Scotts. 
In their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, 
and the pibroch; and in their songs about “ Claverse ” and 
“Bonny Dundee”. But though they may be Scots, they are 
not Walter Scotts. But it is perhaps chiefly in the novel that 
you see the veritable hog in armour; the time of the novel is 
of course the ’15 or ’45; the hero a Jacobite, and connected 
with one or other of the enterprises of those periods; and the 
author, to show how unprejudiced he is, and what original views he 
takes of subjects, must needs speak up for Popery, whenever he has 
occasion to mention it ; though with all his originality, when he 
brings his hero and the vagabonds with which he is concerned 
before a barricaded house, belonging to the Whigs, he can make 
them get into it by no other method than that which Scott makes 
his rioters employ to get into the Tolbooth, burning down the door. 

To express the more than utter foolishness of this latter Charlie 
o’er the water nonsense, whether in rhyme or prose, there is but 
one word, and that word a Scotch word. Scotch, the sorriest of 
jargons, compared with which even Roth-Welsch is dignified and 
expressive, has yet one word to express what would be inexpressible 
by any word or combination of words in any language, or in any 
other jargon in the world ; and very properly ; for as the nonsense 
is properly Scotch, so should the word be Scotch which expresses 
it — that word is “ fushionless,” pronounced fooshionless ; and 
when the writer has called the nonsense fooshionless — and he 
does call it fooshionless — he has nothing more to say, but 
leaves the nonsense to its fate, 


CHAPTER VIIL 


ON CANTING NONSENSE. 

The writer now wishes to say something on the subject of canting 
nonsense, of which there is a great deal in England. There are 
various cants in England, amongst which is the religious cant. 
He is not going to discuss the subject of religious cant : lest, 
however, he should be misunderstood, he begs leave to repeat that 
he is a sincere member of the old-fashioned Church of England., in 
which he believes there is more religion, and consequently less cant, 
than in any other Church in the world ; nor is he going to discuss 
many other cants ; he shall content himself with saying some- 
thing about two — the temperance cant and the unmanly cant. 
Temperance canters say that, “ it is unlawful to drink a glass 
of ale”. Unmanly canters say that “it is unlawful to use one’s 
fists”. The writer begs leave to tell both these species of 
canters that they do not speak the words of truth. 

It is very lawful to take a cup of ale, or wine, for the purpose of 
cheering or invigorating yourself when you are faint and down- 
hearted ; and likewise to give a cup of ale or wine to others when they 
are in a similar condition. The Holy Scripture sayeth nothing to 
the contrary, but rather encourageth people in so doing by the 
text, “ Wine maketh glad the heart of man ”. But it is not 
lawf^ul to intoxicate yourself with frequent cups of ale or wine, 
nor to make others intoxicated, nor does the Holy Scripture say 
that it is. The Holy Scripture no more says that it is lawful to 
intoxicate yourself or others, than it says that it is unlawful to take 
a cup of ale or wine yourself, or to give one to others. Noah 
is not commended in the Scripture for making himself drunken 
on the wine he brewed. Nor is it said that the Saviour, when 
He supplied the guests with first-rate wine at the marriage feast, 
told them to make themselves drunk upon it. He is said to 
have supplied them with first-rate wine, but He doubtless left 
the quantity which each should drink to each party’s reason and 
discretion. When you set a good dinner before your guests, you 
do not expect that they should gorge themselves with the victuals 
you set before them. Wine may be abused, and so may a leg of 
mutton. 


APPENDIX. 


347 


1854-] 


Second. It is lawful for any one to use his fists in his own 
defence, or in the defence of others, provided they can’t help 
themselves ; but it is not lawful to use them for purposes of 
tyranny or brutality. If you are attacked by a ruffian, as the 
elderly individual in Lavengro is in the inn yard, it is quite law- 
ful, if you can, to give him as good a thrashing as the elderly 
individual gave the brutal coachman ; and if you see a helpless 
woman — perhaps your own sister — set upon by a drunken lord, a 
drunken coachman, or a drunken coalheaver, or a brute of any 
description, either drunk or sober, it is not only lawful, but laudable 
to give them, if you can, a good drubbing; but it is not lawful because 
you have a strong pair of fists, and know how to use them, to go 
swaggering through a fair, jostling against unoffending individuals; 
should you do so, you would be served quite right if you were 
to get a drubbing, more particularly if you were served out by 
some one less strong, but more skilful than yourself — even as the 
coachman was served out by a pupil of the immortal Broughton 
— sixty years old, it is true, but possessed of Broughton’s guard 
and chop. Moses is not blamed in the Scripture for taking part 
with the oppressed, and killing an Egyptian persecutor. We are 
not told how Moses killed the Egyptian ; but it is quite as credit- 
able to Moses to suppose that he killed the Egyptian by giving 
him a buffet under the left ear, as by stabbing him with a knife. 
It is true that the Saviour in the New Testament tells His disciples 
to turn the left cheek to be smitten, after they had received a blow 
on the right ; but He was speaking to people divinely inspired, or 
whom He intended divinely to inspire — people selected by God 
for a particular purpose. He likewise tells these people to part with 
various articles of raiment when asked for them, and to go a-travel- 
ling without money, and take no thought of the morrow. Are 
those exhortations carried out by very good people in the present 
day ? Do Quakers, when smitten on the right cheek, turn the left 
to the smiter? When asked for their coat, do they say, “ Friend, 
take my shirt also ? ” Has the Dean of Salisbury no purse ? Does 
the Archbishop of Canterbury go to an inn, run up a reckoning, 
and then say to his landlord, “ Mistress, I have no coin ? ” As- 
suredly the Dean has a purse, and a tolerably well-filled one; 
and, assuredly, the Archbishop, on departing from an inn, not 
only settles his reckoning, but leaves something handsome for 
the servants, and does not say that he is forbidden by the gospel 
to pay for what he has eaten, or the trouble he has given, as a 
certain Spanish cavalier said he was forbidden by the statutes 
of chivalry. Now, to take the part of yourself, or the part of the 


348 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. VIII. 


oppressed, with your fists, is quite as lawful in the present day as it 
is to refuse your coat and your shirt also to any vagabond who may 
ask for them, and not to refuse to pay for supper, bed and break- 
fast, at the Feathers, or any other inn, after you have had the 
benefit of all three. 

The conduct of Lavengro with respect to drink may, upon 
the whole, serve as a model. He is no drunkard, nor is he fond 
of intoxicating other people ; yet when the horrors are upon him 
he has no objection to go to a public-house and call for a pint of 
ale, nor does he shrink from recommending ale to others when 
they are faint and downcast. In one instance, it is true, he does 
what cannot be exactly justified ; he encourages the priest in the 
dingle, in more instances than one, in drinking more hollands 
and water than is consistent with decorum. He has a motive 
indeed in doing so ; a desire to learn from the knave in his cups 
the plans and hopes of the Propaganda of Rome. Such conduct, 
however, was inconsistent with strict fair dealing and openness ; 
and the author advises all those whose consciences never reproach 
them for a single unfair or covert act committed by them, to 
abuse him heartily for administering hollands and water to the 
Priest of Rome. In that instance the hero is certainly wrong ; 
yet in all other cases with regard to drink, he is manifestly right. 
To tell people that they are never to drink a glass of ale or wine 
themselves, or to give one to others, is cant ; and the writer has 
no toleration for cant of any description. Some cants are not 
dangerous ; but the writer believes that a more dangerous cant 
than the temperance cant, or as it is generally called, teetotalism, 
is scarcely to be found. The writer is willing to believe that it 
originated with well meaning, though weak people ; but there can 
be no doubt that it was quickly turned to account by people who 
were neither well meaning nor weak. Let the reader note 
particularly the purpose to which this cry has been turned in 
America — the land, indeed, par excellence, of humbug and hum- 
bug cries. It is there continually in the mouth of the most 
violent political party, and is made an instrument of almost 
unexampled persecution. The writer would say more on the 
temperance cant, both in England and America, but want of 
space prevents him. There is one point on which he cannot 
avoid making a few brief remarks — that is, the inconsistent con- 
duct of its apostles in general. The teetotal apostle says, it is 
a dreadful thing to be drunk. So it is, teetotaller ; but if so, why 
do you get drunk ? I get drunk ? Yes, unhappy man, why do 
you get drunk on smoke and passion? Why are your garnients 


1854.] 


APPENDIX, 


349 


impregnated with the odour of the Indian weed ? Why is there 
a pipe or a cigar always in your mouth ? Why is your language 
more dreadful than that of a Poissarde? Tobacco-smoke is 
more deleterious than ale, teetotaller ; bile more potent than 
brandy. You are fond of telling your hearers what an awful 
thing it is to die drunken. So it is, teetotaller. Then take 
good care that you do not die with smoke and passion, drunken, 
and with temperance language on your lips ; that is, abuse and 
calumny against all those who differ from you. One word of 
sense you have been heard to say, which is, that spirits may be 
taken as a medicine. Now you are in a fever of passion, tee- 
totaller : so, pray take this tumbler of brandy ; take it on the 
homceopathic principle, that heat is to be expelled by heat. You 
are in a temperance fury, so swallow the contents of this tumbler, 
and it will, perhaps, cure you. You look at the glass wistfully — 
you say you occasionally take a glass medicinally — and it is 
probable you do. Take one now. Consider what a dreadful 
thing it would be to die passion drunk; to appear before your 
Maker with /^temperate language on your lips. That’s right ! 
You don’t seem to wince at the brandy. That’s right! — well 
done ! All down in two pulls. Now you look like a reasonable 
being ! 

If the conduct of Lavengro with regard to drink is open to 
little censure, assuredly the use which he makes of his fists is 
entitled to none at all. Because he has a pair of tolerably strong 
fists, and knows to a certain extent how to use them, is he a 
swaggerer or oppressor? To what ill account does he turn them? 
Who more quiet, gentle and inoffensive than he ? He beats off 
a ruffian who attacks him in a dingle; has a kind of friendly 
tuzzle with Mr. Petulengro, and behold the extent of his fistic 
exploits. 

Ay, but he associates with prize-fighters ; and that very fellow, 
Petulengro, is a prize-fighter, and has fought for a stake in a ring. 
Well, and if he had not associated with prize-fighters, how could 
he have used his fists ? Oh, anybody can use his fists in his own 
defence, without being taught by prize-fighters. Can they? 
Then why does not the Italian, or Spaniard, or Afghan use his 
fists when insulted or outraged, instead of having recourse to the 
weapons which he has recourse to? Nobody can use his fists 
without being taught the use of them by those who have them- 
selves been taught, no more than any one can “whiffle” without 
being taught by a master of the art. Now let any man of the 
present day try to whiffle. Would not any one who wished to 


350 


APPENDIX. 


[chap, VIII. 


whiffle have to go to a master of the art ? Assuredly ! but where 
would he find one at the present day ? The last of the whifflers 
hanged himself about a fortnight ago on a bell-rope in a church 
steeple of “the old town/’ from pure grief that there was no 
further demand for the exhibition of his art, there being no 
demand for whiffling since the discontinuation of Guildhall ban- 
quets. Whiffling is lost. The old chap left his sword behind 
him ; let any one take up the old chap’s sword and try to whiffle. 
Now much the same hand as he would make who should take up 
the whiffler’s sword and try to whiffle, would he who should try 
to use his fists who had never had the advantage of a master. 
Let no one think that men use their fists naturally in their own 
disputes — men have naturally recourse to any other thing to 
defend themselves or to offend others ; they fly to the stick, to 
the stone, to the murderous and cowardly knife, or to abuse as 
cowardly as the knife, and occasionally more murderous. Now 
which is best when you hate a person, or have a pique against 
a person, to clench your fist and say “Come on,” or to have 
recourse to the stone, the knife, or murderous calumny? The 
use of- the fist is almost lost in England. Yet are the people 
better than they were when they knew how to use their fists? 
The writer believes not. A fisty combat is at present a great 
rarity, but the use of the knife, the noose, and of poison, to say 
nothing of calumny, are of more frequent occurrence in England 
than perhaps in any country in Europe. Is polite taste better 
than when it could bear the details of a fight? The writer 
believes not. Two men cannot meet in a ring to settle a dispute 
in a manly manner without some trumpery local newspaper 
letting loose a volley of abuse against “ the disgraceful exhibition,” 
in which abuse it is sure to be sanctioned by its dainty readers ; 
whereas some murderous horror, the discovery for example of the 
mangled remains of a woman in some obscure den, is greedily 
seized hold on by the moral journal, and dressed up for its 
readers, who luxuriate and gloat upon the ghastly dish. Now, 
the writer of Lavengro has no sympathy with those who would 
shrink from striking a blow, but would not shrink from the use 
of poison or calumny ; and his taste has little in common with 
that which cannot tolerate the hardy details of a prize-fight, but 
which luxuriates on descriptions of the murder dens of modern 
England. But prize-fighters and pugilists are blackguards, a re- 
viewer has said; and blackguards they would be provided they 
employed their skill and their prowess for purposes of brutality 
and oppression ; but prize-fighters and pugilists are seldom friends 


APPENDIX. 


351 


1854-] 


to brutality and oppression ; and which is the blackguard, the 
writer would ask : he who uses his fists to take his own part, or 
instructs others to use theirs for the same purpose, or the being 
who from envy and malice, or at the bidding of a malicious 
scoundrel, endeavours by calumny, falsehood, and misrepresenta- 
tion to impede the efforts of lonely and unprotected genius? 

One word more about the race, all but extinct, of the people 
opprobriously called prize-fighters. Some of them have been as 
noble, kindly men as the . world ever produced. Can the rolls of 
the English aristocracy exhibit names belonging to more noble, 
more heroic men than those who were called ‘respectively Pearce, 
Cribbend Spring? Did ever one of the English aristocracy con- 
tract the seeds of fatal consumption by rushing up the stairs of a 
burning edifice, even to the topmost garret, and rescuing a woman 
from seemingly inevitable destruction? The writer says no. A 
woman was rescued from the top of a burning house ; but the man 
who rescued her was no aristocrat ; it was Pearce, not Percy, who 
ran up the burning stairs. Did ever one of those glittering ones 
save a fainting female from the libidinous rage of six ruffians? 
The writer believes not. A woman was rescued from the libidinous 

fury of six monsters on Down ; but the man who rescued her 

was no aristocrat; it was Pearce not Paulet, who rescued the 
woman, and thrashed my Lord’s six gamekeepers — Pearce, whose 
equal never was, and probably never will be, found in sturdy 
combat. Are there any of the aristocracy of whom it can be said 
that they never did a cowardly, cruel or mean action, and that 
they invariably took the part of the unfortunate and weak against 
cruelty and oppression ? As much can be said of Cribb, of 
Spring, and the other; but where is the aristocrat of whom as 
much can be said ? Wellington ? Wellington indeed ! a skilful 
general, and a good man of valour, it is true, but with that cant 
word of “ duty ” continually on his lips. Did he rescue Ney from 
his butchers ? Did he lend a helping hand to Warner ? 

In conclusion, the writer would advise those of his country- 
folks who read his book to have nothing to do with the two kinds 
of canting nonsense described above, but in their progress through 
life to enjoy as well as they can, but always with moderation, the 
good things of this world, to put confidence in God, to be as inde- 
pendent as possible, and to take their own parts. If they are low 
spirited, let them not make themselves foolish by putting on 
sackcloth, drinking water, or chewing ashes, but let them take 
wholesome exercise, and eat the most generous food they can get, 
taking up and reading occasionally, not the lives of Ignatius Loyola 


352 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. VIII. 


and Francis Spira, but something more agreeable ; for example, 
the life and adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, the deaf and 
dumb gentleman ; the travels of Captain Falconer in America, 
and the journal of John Randall, who went to Virginia and 
married an Indian wife; not forgetting, amidst their eating and 
drinking, their walks over heaths, and by the sea-side, and their 
agreeable literature, to be charitable to the poor, to read the Psalms 
and to go to church twice on a Sunday. In their dealings with 
people, to be courteous to everybody, as Lavengro was, but always 
independent like him ; and if people meddle with them, to give 
them as good as they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners were 
in the habit of doing; and it will be as well for him to observe 
that he by no means advises women to be too womanly, but bear- 
ing the conduct of Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, 
and if anybody strikes them, to strike again. 

Beating of women by the lords of the creation has become very 
prevalent in England since pugilism has been discountenanced. 
Now the writer strongly advises any woman who is struck by a 
ruffian to strike him again ; or if she cannot clench her fists, 
and he advises all women in these singular times to learn to clench 
their fists, to go at him with tooth and nail, and not to be afraid 
of the result, for any fellow who is dastard enough to strike 
a woman, would allow himself to be beaten by a woman, were she 
to make at him in self-defence, even if, instead of possessing the 
stately height and athletic proportions of the aforesaid Isopel, she 
were as diminutive in stature, and had a hand as delicate, and 
foot as small, as a certain royal lady, who was some time ago 
assaulted by a fellow upwards of six feet high, whom the writer has 
no doubt she could have beaten had she thought proper to go at 
him. Such is the deliberate advice of the author to his country- 
men and women — advice in which he believes there is nothing 
unscriptural or repugnant to common sense. 

The writer is perfectly well aware that, by the plain language 
which he has used in speaking of the various kinds of nonsense 
prevalent in England, he shall make himself a multitude of enemies ; 
but he is not going to conceal the truth or to tamper with nonsense, 
from the fear of provoking hostility. He has a duty to perform 
and he will perform it resolutely ; he is the person who carried 
the Bible to Spain ; and as resolutely as he spoke in Spain against 
the superstitions of Spain, will he speak in England against the 
nonsense of his own native land. He is not one of those who, 
before they sit down to write a book, say to themselves, what cry 
’ shall we take up ? what principles shall we advocate ? what prin- 


APPENDIX. 


353 


1854-] 


ciples shall we abuse ? before we put pen to paper we must find 
out what cry is the loudest, what principle has the most advocates, 
otherwise, after having written our book, we may find ourselves 
on the weaker side. 

A sailor of the Bounty waked from his sleep by the noise of 
the mutiny, lay still in his hammock for some time, quite unde- 
cided whether to take part with the captain or to join the mutineers. 
“I must mind what I do,” said he to himself, “lest, in the end, 
I find myself on the weaker side; ” finally, on hearing that the 
mutineers were successful, he went on deck, and seeing Bligh 
pinioned to the mast, he put his fist to his nose, and otherwise 
insulted him. Now, there are many writers of the present day 
whose conduct is very similar to that of the sailor. They lie 
listening in their corners till they have ascertained which principle 
has most advocates ; then, presently, they make their appearance 
on the deck of the world with their book ; if truth has been victori- 
ous, then has truth their hurrah ! but if truth is pinioned against 
the mast, then is their fist thrust against the nose of truth, and 
their gibe and their insult spurted in their face. The strongest 
party had the sailor, and the strongest party has almost invariably 
the writer of the present day. 


23 


chapter IX. 

PSEUDO-CRITICS. 


A CERTAIN set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked 
Lavengro with much virulence and malice. If what they call 
criticism had been founded on truth, the author would have had 
nothing to say. The book contains plenty of blemishes, some of 
them, by-the-bye, wilful ones, as the writer will presently show ; 
not one of these, however, has been detected and pointed out ; but 
the best passages in the book, indeed whatever was calculated to 
make the book valuable, have been assailed with abuse and mis- 
representation. The duty of the true critic is to play the part of 
a leech, and not of a viper. Upon true and upon malignant 
criticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte. The 
viper says to the leech, “ Why do people invite your bite, and flee 
from mine ? ” “ Because,” says the leech, “ people receive health 

from my bite, and poison from yours.” “There is as much differ- 
ence,” says the clever Spaniard, “between true and malignant 
criticism, as between poison and medicine.” Certainly a great 
many meritorious writers have allowed themselves to be poisoned 
by malignant criticism ; the writer, however, is not one of those 
who allow themselves to be poisoned by pseudo-critics ; no ! no ! 
he will rather hold them up by their tails, and show the creatures 
wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws. 
First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections. 
“ The book isn’t true,” say they. Now one of the principal reasons 
with those who have attacked Lavengro for their abuse of it is, 
that it is particularly true in one instance, namely, that it exposes 
their own nonsense, their love of humbug, their slavishness, their 
dressings, their goings out, their scraping and bowing to great 
people ; it is the showing up of “ gentility nonsense ” in Lavengro 
that has been one principal reason for the raising the above cry ; for 
in Lavengro., is denounced the besetting folly of the English people, 
a folly which those who call themselves guardians of the public 
taste are far from being above. “ We can’t abide anything that 
isn’t true!” they exclaim. Can’t they? Then why are they so 
enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposes of humbug, 
which tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings, 

( 354 ) 


1854 -] 


APPENDIX. 


355 


with their own nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, 
to become more alive to their own failings, and less sensitive about 
the tyrannical goings on of the masters, and the degraded condition, 
the sufferings, and the trials of the serfs in the star Jupiter? Had 
Lavengro, instead of being the work of an independent mind, been 
written in order to further any of the thousand and one cants, and 
species of nonsense prevalent in England, the author would have 
heard much less about its not being true, both from public 
detractors and private censurers. 

“But Lavengro pretends to be an autobiography,” say the 
critics ; and here the writer begs leave to observe, that it would 
be well for people who profess to have a regard for truth, not to 
exhibit in every assertion which they make a most profligate 
disregard of it ; this assertion of theirs is a falsehood, and they 
know it to be a falsehood. In the preface Lavengro is stated to 
be a dream ; and the writer takes this opportunity of stating that_ 
he never said it was an autobiography; never authorised any 
person to say that it was one ; and that he has in innumerable 
instances declared in public and private, both before and after the 
work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an 
autobiography : but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms 
on books, hating the author for various reasons — amongst others, 
because, having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, 
he did not, in the year ’43, choose to permit himself to be ex- 
hibited and made a zany of in London, and especially because he 
will neither associate with, nor curry favour with, them who are 
neither gentlemen nor scholars — attack his book with abuse and 
calumny. He is, perhaps, condescending too much when he 
takes any notice of such people ; as, however, the English public 
is wonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take 
part against any person who is either unwilling or unable to de- 
fend himself, he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet 
with those who assail him. The best way to deal with vipers is 
to tear out their teeth ; and the best way to deal with pseudo- 
critics is to deprive them of their poison-bag, which is easily done 
by exposing their ignorance. The writer knew perfectly well the 
description of people with whom he would have to do, he there- 
fore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which he 
could at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless, in his 
hand. Critics, when they review books, ought to have a com- 
petent knowledge of the subjects which those books discuss. 

Lavengro is a philological book, a poem if you choose to call 
it so. Now what a fine triumph it would have been for those 


356 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. IX. 


who wished to vilify the book and its author, provided they could 
have detected the latter tripping in his philology — they might 
have instantly said that he was an ignorant pretender to philology 
— they laughed at the idea of his taking up a viper by its tail, a 
trick which hundreds of country urchins do every September, but 
they were silent about the really wonderful part of the book, the 
philological matter — they thought philology was his stronghold, 
and that it would be useless to attack him there ; they of course 
would give him no credit as a philologist, for anything like fair treat- 
ment towards him was not to be expected at their hands, but they 
were afraid to attack his philology — yet that was the point, and 
the only point in which they might have attacked him success- 
fully ; he was vulnerable there. How was this? Why, in order 
to have an opportunity of holding up pseudo-critics by the tails, 
he wilfully spelt various foreign words wrong — Welsh words, and 
even Italian words — did they detect these mis-spellings ? not one 
of them, even as he knew they would not, and he now taunts 
them with ignorance ; and the power of taunting them with ignor- 
ance is the punishment which he designed for them — a power 
which they might but for their ignorance have used against him. 
The writer besides knowing something of Italian and Welsh, 
knows a little of Armenian language and literature ; but who 
knowing anything of the Armenian language, unless he had an 
end in view, would say, that the word for sea in Armenian is 
anything like the word tide in English? The word for sea in 
Armenian is dzon^, a word connected with the Tibetian word for 
water, and the Chinese shuy, and the Turkish su, signifying the 
same thing; but where is the resemblance between dzow and 
tide ? Again, the word for bread in ancient Armenian is hats ; 
yet the Armenian on London Bridge is made to say zhafs, which 
is not the nominative of the Armenian noun for bread, but the 
accusative : now, critics, ravening against a man because he is a 
gentleman and a scholar, and has not only the power but also the 
courage to write original works, why did not you discover that 
weak point? Why, because you were ignorant, so here ye are 
held up ! Moreover, who with a name commencing with Z, ever 
wrote fables in Armenian ? There are two writers of fables in 
Armenian — Varthan and Koscht, and illustrious writers they are, 
one in the simple, and the other in the ornate style of Armenian 
composition, but neither of their names begins with a Z. Oh, what 
a precious opportunity ye lost, ye ravening crew, of convicting the 
poor, half-starved, friendless boy of the book, of ignorance or 
misrepresentation, by asking who with a name beginning with Z 


i854-] 


APPENDIX. 


357 


ever wrote fables in Armenian ; but ye couldn’t help yourselves, 
ye are duncie. “ We duncie ! ” Ay, duncie. So here ye are held 
up by the tails, blood and foam streaming from your jaws. 

The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this. 
Messieurs les Critiques! Were ye ever served so before? But 
don’t you richly deserve it? Haven’t you been for years past 
bullying and insulting everybody whom you deemed weak, and 
currying favour with everybody whom you thought strong? “ We 
approve of this. We disapprove of that. Oh, this will never 
do. These are fine lines ! ” The lines perhaps some horrid 
sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so. 
To have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this 
manner, and by whom ? A gypsy ! Ay, a gypsy was the very 
right person to do it. But is it not galling, after all ? 

Ah, but we don’t understand Armenian, it cannot be expected 

that we should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or . Hey, 

what’s this ? The mighty we not understand Armenian or Welsh, 

or . Then why does the mighty we pretend to review a 

book like Lavengro ! From the arrogance with which it con- 
tinually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty we is 
omniscient ; that it understands every language ; is versed in 
every literature ; yet tfie mighty we does not even know the word 
for bread in Armenian. It knows bread well enough by name 
in English, and frequently bread in England only by its name, 
but the truth is, that the mighty we^ with all its pretension, is in 
general a very sorry creature, who, instead of saying nous disons, 
should rather say nous dis : Parny in his Guerre des JJieux, 
very profanely makes the three in one say, Je faisons ; now, 
Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would suggest that critics, 
especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics, should com- 
mence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant of 
the conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the 
extent of the critic’s information. The 7oe says its say, but when 
fawning sycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, 
what remains? Why a blank, a void, like Ginnungagap. 

As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the 
blemishes of his book — a task, which a competent critic ought to 
have done — he will now point out two or three of its merits, 
which any critic, not altogether blinded with ignorance, might 
have done, or not replete with gall and envy would have been 
glad to do. The book has the merit of communicating a fact 
connected with physiology, which in all the pages of the multitude 
of books was never previously mentioned — the mysterious practice 


358 


APPENDIX, 


[chap. IX. 


of touching objects to baffle the evil chance. The miserable 
detractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a 
habit being common : well and good ; but was it ever before 
described in print, or all connected with it dissected? He may 
then vociferate something about Johnson having touched : the 
writer cares not whether Johnson, who, by-the-bye, during the 
last twenty or thirty years, owing to people having become ultra 
Tory mad from reading Scott’s novels and the Quarterly Review ^ 
has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who were in 
the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool — touched, or whether 
he did or not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the 
feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even 
supposing that he did perform it? Again, the history gives an 
account of a certain book called the Sleeping Bard, the most 
remarkable prose work of the most difficult language but one, of 
modern Europe, — a book, for a notice of which, he believes, one 
might turn over in vain the pages of any Review printed in 
England, or, indeed, elsewhere. So here are two facts, one 
literary and the other physiological, for which any candid critic 
was bound to thank the author, even as in the Romany Rye there 
is a fact connected with Iro-Norman Myth, for the disclosing of 
which, any person who pretends to have, a fegard for literature is 
bound to thank hiiT\, namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal 
of Ossian^s Poems is one and the same person as the Sigurd 
Fafnisbane of the Edda and .the Wilkina, and the Siegfried Horn 
of the Lay of the Niebelungs. 

The writer might here conclude, and, he believes, most 
triumphantly ; as, however, he is in the cue for writing, which he 
seldom is, he will for his own gratification, and for the sake of 
others, dropping metaphors about vipers and serpents, show up 
in particular two or three sets or cliques of people, who, he is 
happy to say, have been particularly virulent against him and 
his work, for nothing indeed could have given him greater morti- 
fication than their praise. 

In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals 
who call themselves men of wit and fashion — about town — who 
he is told have abused his book “ vaustly ” — their own word. These 
people paint their cheeks, wear white kid gloves, and dabble in 
literature, or what they conceive to be literature. For abuse 
from such people, the writer was prepared. Does any one 
imagine that the writer was not well aware, before he published 
his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should be 
attacked by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence 


• APPENDIX. 


359 


i«54-] 


enough to procure the insertion of a scurrilous article in a 
magazine or newspaper ! He has been in Spain, and has seen 
how invariably the mule attacks the horse ; now why does the 
mule attack the horse? Why, because the latter carries about 
with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does not possess. 

They consider, forsooth, that his book is low — but he is not 
going to waste words about them — one or two of whom, he is 
told, have written very duncie books about Spain, and are highly 
enraged with him, because certain books which he wrote about 
Spain were not considered duncie. No, he is not going to waste 
words upon them, for verily he dislikes their company, and so 
he’ll pass them by, and proceed to others. 

The Scotch Charlie o’er the water people have been very 
loud in the abuse of Lavengro — this again might be expected ; 
the sarcasms of the priest about the Charlie o’er the water 
nonsense of course stung them. Oh ! it is one of the claims 
which Lavengro has to respect, that it is the first, if not the only 
work, in which that nonsense is, to a certain extent, exposed. 
Two or three of their remarks on passages of Lavengro, he will 
reproduce and laugh at. Of course your Charlie o’er the water 
people are genteel exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low. 
Gypsyism they think is particularly low, and the use of gypsy 
words in literature beneath its gentility ; so they object to gypsy 
words being used in Lavengro where gypsies are introduced 
speaking — “What is Romany forsooth?” say they. Very good! 
And what is Scotch? has not the public been nauseated with 
Scotch for the last thirty years? “Ah, but Scotch is not ” — the 
writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch what Scotch 
is and what it is not ; he has told them before what it is : a very 
sorry jargon. He will now tell them what it is not — a sister or 
an immediate daughter of the Sanscrit, which Romany is. “ Ay, 
but the Scotch are” — foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes, even 
like the gypsies — the difference between the gypsy and Scotch 
fox being that the first is wild, with a mighty brush, the other a 
sneak with a gilt collar and without a tail. 

A Charlie o’er the water person attempts to be witty, because 
the writer has said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh High- 
School porter, of the name of Boee, was perhaps of the same 
blood as a certain Bui, a Northern Kemp who distinguished 
himself at the battle of Horinger Bay. A pretty matter, forsooth, 
to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman I Why, is there a beggar 
or trumpery fellow in Scotland, who does not pretend to be 
somebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman 


36o 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. IX. 


descended from some king, kemp or cow-stealer of old, by his 
own account at least? Why, the writer would even go so far as 
to bet a trifle that the poor creature, who ridicules Boee’s 
supposed ancestry, has one of his own, at least as grand and as 
apocryphal as old Boee’s of the High School. 

The same Charlie o’er the water person is mightily indignant 
that Lavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William 
Wallace; Lavengro, when he speaks of that personage, being a 
child of about ten years old, and repeating merely what he had 
heard. All the Scotch, by-the-bye, for a great many years past, 
have been great admirers of William Wallace, particularly the 
Charlie o’er the water people, who in their nonsense-verses about 
Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of William, 
Willie, or Wullie, Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that he 
by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he 
cannot help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie, Wallace 
was such a particularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray 
him to a certain renowned southern warrior, called Edward 
Longshanks, who caused him to be hanged and cut into four in 
London, and his quarters to be placed over the gates of certain 
towns ? They got gold, it is true, and titles, very nice things, no 
doubt ; but, surely, the life of a patriot is better than all the gold 
and titles in the world — at least Lavengro thinks so — but Lavengro 
has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not 
betray their brothers. It would be some time before a gypsy 
would hand over] his brother to the harum-beck, even supposing 
you would not only make him a king, but a justice of the peace, 
and not only give him the world, but the best farm on the 
Holkham estate ; but gypsies are wild foxes, and there is certainly 
a wonderful difference between the way of thinking of the wild 
fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvy kennel creature 
who has lost his tail. 

Ah ! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o’er 
the water people, will say, “ We didn’t sell Willie Wallace, it was 

our forbears who sold Willie Wallace If Edward Longshanks 

had asked us to sell Wullie Wallace, we would soon have shown 

him that ” Lord better ye, ye poor trumpery set of creatures, 

ye would not have acted a bit better than your forefathers; re- 
member how ye have ever treated the few amongst ye who, though 
born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of the 
wood. Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite 
as honest and patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an 
English minister, to be chained and transported for merely 


APPENDIX. 


361 


1854-] 


venturing to speak and write in the cause of humanity, at the 
time when Europe was beginning to fling off the chains imposed 
by kings and priests. And it is not so very long since Burns, to 
whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher than he 
deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and 
misery, because he would not join with them in songs of adulation 
to kings and the trumpery great. So say not that ye would have 
acted with respect to William Wallace one whit better than your 
fathers — and you in particular, ye children of Charlie, whom do 
ye write nonsense-verses about? A family of dastard despots, 
who did their best, during a century and more, to tread out the 
few sparks of independent feeling still glowing in Scotland — but 
enough has been said about ye. 

Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defama- 
tion of Lavengro^ have been your modern Radicals, and particu- 
larly a set of people who filled the country with noise against the 
King and Queen, Wellington, and the Tories, in ’32. About 
these people the writer will presently have occasion to say a good 
deal, and also of real Radicals. As, however, it may be supposed 
that he is one of those who delight to play the sycophant to kings 
and queens, to curry favour with Tories, and to bepraise Welling- 
ton, he begs leave to state that such is not the case. 

About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories, 
simply that he believes them to be a bad set ; about Wellington, 
however, it will be necessary for him to say a good deal, of mixed 
import, as he will subsequently frequently have occasion to 
mention him in connection with what he has to say about pseudo- 
Radicals. 


CHAPTER X. 


PSEUDO-RADICALS. ' 

About Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the 
present day to be infinitely overrated. But there certainly was a 
time when he was shamefully underrated. Now what time was 
that? Why the time of pseudo-Radicalism, par excellence, from 
’20 to ’32. Oh, the abuse that was heaped on Wellington by 
those who traded in Radical cant — your newspaper editors and 
review writers ! and how he was sneered at then by your Whigs, 
and how faintly supported he was by your Tories, who were half 
ashamed of him ; for your Tories, though capital fellows as 
followers, when you want nobody to back you, are the faintest 
creatures in the world when you cry in your agony, “ Come and 
help me ! ” Oh, assuredly Wellington was infamously used at that 
time, especially by your traders in Radicalism, who howled at and 
hooted him ; said he had every vice — was no general — was beaten 
at Waterloo — was a poltroon — moreover a poor illiterate creature, 
who could scarcely read or write ; nay, a principal Radical paper 
said bodily he could not read, and devised an ingenious plan for 
teaching Wellington how to read. Now this was too bad ; and 
the writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke up for Welling- 
ton, saying, that as for vice, he was not worse than his neighbours ; 
that he was brave ; that he won the fight at Waterloo, from a half- 
dead man, it is true, but that he did win it. Also, that he believed 
he had read Rules for the Manual and Platoon Exercises to some 
purpose ; moreover, that he was sure he could write, for that he 
the writer had once written to Wellington, and had received an 
answer from him ; nay, the writer once went so far as to strike a 
blow for Wellington ; for the last time he used his fists was upon 
a Radical sub-editor, who was mobbing Wellington in the street, 
from behind a rank of grimy fellows. But though the writer spoke 
up for Wellington to a certain extent when he was shamefully 
underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was about 
being hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome sycophantic 
nonsense which it has been the fashion to use with respect to 
Wellington these last twenty years. Now what have those years 
been to England ! Why the years of ultra-gentility, everybody in 
England having gone gentility mad during the last twenty years, 
^nd no people more so than your pseudo-Radicals. Wellington 


APPENDIX. 


363 


1854-] 


was turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals got in, and then 
commenced the period of ultra-gentility in England. The Whigs 
and Radicals only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of 
the country was in his hands, none of which they were tolerably 
sure he would bestow on them ; but no sooner did they get it 
into their own, than they forthwith became admirers of Welling- 
ton. And why? Because he was a duke, petted at Windsor and 
by foreign princes, and a very genteel personage. Formerly many 
of your Whigs and Radicals had scarcely a decent coat on their 
backs ; but now the plunder of the country was at their disposal, 
and they had as good a chance of being genteel as any people. 
So they were willing to worship Wellington because he was very 
genteel, and could not keep the plunder of the country out of 
their hands. And Wellington has been worshipped, and prettily 
so, during the last fifteen or twenty years. He is now a noble fine- 
hearted creature ; the greatest general the world ever produced ; 
the bravest of men ; and — and — mercy upon us ! the greatest 
of military writers ! Now the present writer will not join in such 
sycophancy. As he was not afraid to take the part of Wellington 
when he was scurvily used by all parties, and when it was 
dangerous to take his part, so he is not afraid to speak the naked 
truth about Wellington in these days, when it is dangerous to say 
anything about him but what is sycophantically laudatory. He 
said in ’32, that as to vice, Wellington was not worse than his 
neighbours ; but he is not going to say in ’54, that Wellington 
was a noble-hearted fellow ; for he believes that a more cold- 
hearted individual never existed. His conduct to Warner, the 
poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney, showed that. He said in ’32, 
that he was a good general and a brave man ; but he is not going, 
in ’54, to say that he was the best general, or the bravest man, the 
world ever saw. England has produced a better general — France 
two or three — both countries many braver men. The son of the 
Norfolk clergyman was a brave man ; Marshal Ney was a braver 
man. Oh, that battle of Copenhagen ! Oh, that covering the 
retreat of the Grand Army ! And though he said in ’32 that he 
could write, he is not going to say in ’54 that he is the best of all 
military writers. On the contrary, he does not hesitate to say 
that any Commentary of Julius Caesar, or any chapter in Justinus, 
more especially the one about the Parthians, is worth the ten 
volumes of Wellington’s Despatches; though he has no doubt 
that, by saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a 
certain newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals 
imaginable — with a slight tendency to liberalism, it is true, but 


364 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. X. 


perfectly genteel — which is nevertheless the very one which, in 
’32, swore bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write, 
and devised an ingenious plan for teaching him how to read. 

Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if 
the writer should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he 
would be influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry 
favour with Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of 
Wellington ; but the writer is not going to declaim against Radi- 
cals, that is, real Republicans, or their principles ; upon the whole, 
he is something of an admirer of both. The writer has always 
had as much admiration for everything that is real and honest as 
he has had contempt for the opposite. Now real Republicanism 
is certainly a very fine thing, a much finer thing than Toryism, 
a system of common robbery, which is nevertheless far better 
than Whiggism * — a compound of petty larceny, popular instruc- 
tion, and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real Republicanism is 
certainly a very fine thing, and your real Radicals and Republicans 
are certainly very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows, for the 
Lord only knows where to find them at the present day — the 
writer does not. If he did, he would at any time go five miles 
to invite one of them to dinner, even supposing that he had to 
go to a workhouse in order to find the person he wished to invite. 
Amongst the real Radicals of England, those who flourished from 
the year T6 to ’20, there were certainly extraordinary characters, 
men partially insane, perhaps, but honest and brave — they did 
not make a market of the principles which they professed, and 
never intended to do so ; they bejieved in them, and were willing 
to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out. The writer 
wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both of whom 
perished on the scaffold — their names were Thistlewood and Ings. 

* As the present work will conie out in the midst of a vehement political 
contest, people may be led to suppose that the above was written expressly for 
the time. The writer therefore begs to state that it was written in the year 1854. He 
cannot help adding that he is neither Whig, Tory, nor Radical, and cares not a 
straw what party governs England, provided it is governed well. But he has no 
hopes of good government from the Whigs. It is true that amongst them there 
is one very great man. Lord Palmerston, who is indeed the sword and- buckler, 
the chariots and the horses of the party ; but it is impossible for his lordship to 
govern well with such colleagues as he has— colleagues which have been forced 
upon him by family influence, and who are continually pestering him into measures 
anything but conducive to the country’s honour and interest. If Palmerston would 
govern well, he must get rid of them ; but from that step, with all his courage and 
all his greatness, he will shrink. Yet how proper and easy a step it would be ! 
He could easily get better, but scarcely worse, associates. They appear to have 
one object in view and only one — ^jobbery. It was chiefly owing to a most flagitious 
piece of jobbery, which one of his lordship’s principal colleagues sanctioned and 
promoted, that his lordship experienced his late parliamentary disasters. 


APPENDIX. 


365 


1854-] 


Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier and 
had served with distinction as an officer in the French service ; 
he was one of the excellent swordsmen of Europe; had fought 
several duels in France, where it is no child’s play to fight a duel; 
but had never unsheathed his sword for single combat, but in 
defence of the feeble and insulted — he was kind and open- 
hearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand 
pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared 
and never returned him a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, 
of very low stature, but amazing strength and resolution ; he was 
a kind husband and father, and though a humble butcher, the 
name he bore was one of the royal names of the heathen Anglo- 
Saxons. These two men, along with five others, were executed, 
and their heads hacked off, for levying war against George the 
Fourth ; the whole seven dying in a manner which extorted cheers 
from the populace, the most of them uttering philosophical or 
patriotic sayings. Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the most calm 
and collected of all, just before he was turned off, said, “ We are 
now going to discover the great secret”. Ings, the moment before 
he was choked, was singing “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled”. 
Now there was no humbug about those men, nor about many 
more of the same time and of the same principles. They might 
be deluded about Republicanism, as Algernon Sidney was, and 
as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave as either 
Brutus or Sidney, and as willing to die for their principles. 
But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a very 
different description ; they jobbed and traded in Republicanism, 
and either parted with it, or at *lhe present day are eager to part 
with it, for a consideration. In order to get the Whigs into power, 
and themselves places, they brought the country by their inflam- 
matory language to the verge of a revolution, and were the cause 
that many perished on the scaffold ; by their incendiary harangues 
and newspaper articles they caused the Bristol conflagration, for 
which six poor creatures were executed ; they encouraged the 
mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and then rushing into 
garrets looked on. Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower is a 
second Bastile; let it be pulled down. A mob tries to pull 
down the Tower ; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob ; 
he is not peeping from a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at 
Lisbon. Thistlewood and Ings say to twenty ragged individuals, 
Liverpool and Castlereagh are two satellites of despotism ; it 
would be highly desirable to put them out of the way. And a 
certain number of ragged individuals are surprised in a stable in 


366 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. X. 


Cato Street, making preparations to put Castlereagh and Liverpool 
out of the way, and are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers, 
and are hacked at with cutlasses by Bow Street runners ; but 
the twain who encouraged those ragged individuals to meet in 
Cato Street are not far off, they are not on the other side of the 
river, in the Borough, for example, in some garret or obscure 
cellar. The very first to confront the Guards and runners are 
Thistlewood and Ings ; Thistlewood whips his long thin rapier 
through Smithers’ lungs, and Ings makes a dash at Fitzclarence 
with his butcher’s knife. Oh, there was something in those 
fellows ! honesty and courage ; but can as much be said for the 
inciters of the troubles of ’32 ? No ; they egged on poor ignorant 
mechanics and rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and 
burning, whilst the highest pitch to which their own daring ever 
mounted was to mob Wellington as he passed in the streets. 

Now, these people w^ere humbugs, which Thistlewood and 
Ings were not. They raved and foamed against kings, queens, 
Wellington, the aristocracy, and what not, till they had got the 
Whigs into power, with whom they were in secret alliance, and 
with whom they afterwards openly joined in a system of robbery 
and corruption, more flagitious than the old Tory one, because 
there was more cant about it ; for themselves they got consulships, 
commissionerships, and in some instances governments ; for their 
sons clerkships in public offices; and there you may see those 
sons with the never-failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, 
the gilt chain at the waistcoat-pocket; and there you may hear 
and see them using the languishing tones, and employing the airs 
and graces which wenches use and employ, who, without being 
in the family way, wish to make their keepers believe that they 
are in the family way. Assuredly great is the cleverness of your 
Radicals of ’32, in providing for themselves and their families. 
Yet, clever as they are, there is one thing they cannot do — they 
get governments for themselves, commissionerships for their 
brothers, clerkships for their sons, but there is one thing beyond 
their craft — they cannot get husbands for their daughters, who, 
too ugly for marriage, and with their heads filled with the 
nonsense they have imbibed from gentility-novels, go over from 
Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters in fusty convents, or 
having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude’s “ chapelle,” seek 

for admission at the establishment of mother S , who, after 

employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making 
them pluck off their eyebrows, hair by hair, generally dismisses 
them on the plea of sluttishness ; whereupon they return to their 


APPENDIX. 


367 


1854*] 


papas to eat the bread of the country, with the comfortable 
prospect of eating it still in the shape of a pension after their 
sires are dead. Papa [ex uno disce omnes) living as quietly as he 
can ; not exactly enviably, it is true, being now and then seen to 
cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even as an animal is 
wont, who has lost by some mischance a very sightly appendage ; 
as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great admirer 
of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in par- 
ticular, whose Despatches^ bound in red morocco, you will 
find on his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes 
of every kind, with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts 
to revolutionise, exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes 
from whipped and bleeding Hungary, a groan from gasping 
Poland, and a half-stifled curse from down-trodden but scowling 
Italy, “ Confound the revolutionary canaille, why can’t it be 
quiet ! ” in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the 
Walpurgis Nacht. The writer is no admirer of Goethe, but the 
idea of that parvefiu was certainly a good one — yes, putting one 
in mind of the individual who says : — 

“ Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm, 

Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten ; 

Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um, 

Und eben da wir’s fest erhalten wollten.” 

We were no fools, as every one discern’d, 

And stopp’d at nought our projects in fulfilling; 

But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn’d. 

To keep it quiet just when we were willing. 

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for 
Lavengro and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of 
vituperating both. It is true that such hatred is by no means 
surprising. There is certainly a great deal of difference between 
Lavengro and their own sons ; the one thinking of independence 
and philology, whilst he is clinking away at kettles, and hammer- 
ing horse-shoes in dingles ; the others stuck up at public offices 
with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving themselves 
the airs and graces of females of a certain description. And 
there certainly is a great deal of difference between the author 
of Lavengro and themselves — he* retaining his principles and his 
brush ; they with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their 
republicanism and their tails. Oh, the writer can well afford to 
be vituperated by your pseudo-Radicals of ’32 ! 

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and 
his wife ; but the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE OLD RADICAL. 

“ This very dirty man, with his very dirty face, 

Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place.” 


Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and 
his wife ; but before he relates the manner in which they set 
upon him, it will be as well to enter upon a few particulars tending 
to elucidate their reasons for so doing. 

The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he 
met at the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, 
apparently somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and 
weaselly figure, a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, 
and a large pair of spectacles. This person, w^ho had lately come 
from abroad, and had published a volume of translations, had 
attracted some slight notice in the literary world, and was looked 
upon as a kind of lion in a small provincial capital. After dinner 
he argued a great deal, spoke vehemently against the Church, 
and uttered the most desperate Radicalism that was perhaps ever 
heard, saying, he hoped that in a short time there would not be 
a king or queen in Europe, and inveighing bitterly against the 
English aristocracy, and against the Duke of Wellington in 
particular, whom he said, if he himself was ever president of an 
English republic — an event which he seemed to think by no 
means improbable — he would hang for certain infamous acts 
of profligacy and bloodshed which he had perpetrated in Spain. 
Being informed that the writer was something of a philologist, to 
which character the individual in question laid great pretensions, 
he came and sat down by him, and talked about languages and 
literature. The writer, who was only a boy, was a little frightened 
at first, but, not wishing to appear a child of absolute ignorance, 
he summoned what little learning he had, and began to blunder 
out something about the Celtic languages and their literature, and 
asked the Lion who he conceived Finn Ma Coul to be? and 
whether he did not consider the “ Ode to the Fox,” by Red Rhys 
of Eryry, to be a masterpiece of pleasantry? Receiving no 
answer to these questions from the Lion, who,' singular enough, 


1854-] 


APPENDIX, 


369 


would frequently, when the writer put a question to him, look 
across the table, and flatly contradict some one who was talking 
to some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages 
and literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny 
thing that Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have 
married the daughter of Prester John?* The Lion, after giving 
a side-glance at the writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed 
about to reply, but was unfortunately prevented, being seized with 
an irresistible impulse to contradict a respectable doctor of 
medicine; who was engaged in conversation with the master of 
the house at the upper and farther end of the table, the writer 
being a poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the bottom. The 
doctor, who had served in the Peninsula, having observed that 
Ferdinand the Seventh was not quite so bad as had been repre- 
sented, the Lion vociferated that he was ten times worse, and 
that he hoped to see him and the Duke of Wellington hanged 
together. The doctor, who, being a Welshman, was somewhat 
of a warm temper, growing rather red, said that at any rate he had 
been informed that Ferdinand the Seventh knew sometimes how to 
behave himself like a gentleman — this brought on a long dispute, 
which terminated rather abruptly. The Lion having observed that 
the doctor must not talk about Spanish matters with one who had 
visited every part of Spain, the doctor bowed, and said he was right, 
for that he believed no people in general possessed such accurate 
information about countries as those who had travelled them as 
bagmen. On the Lion asking the doctor what he meant, the 
Welshman, whose under jaw began to move violently, replied, 
that he meant what he said. Here the matter ended, for the 
Lion turning from him, looked at the writer. The writer, imagin- 
ing that his own conversation hitherto had been too trivial and 
common-place for the Lion to consider it worth his while to take 
^much notice of it, determined to assume a little higher ground, 
and after repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling a 
little Arabic, asked the Lion what he considered to be the dif- 
ference between the Hegira and the Christian era, adding, that he 
thought the general computation was in error by about one year ; 
and being a particularly modest person, chiefly, he believes, owing 
to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely blushed at find- 
ing that the Lion returned not a word in answer. “ What a wonder- 
ful individual I am seated by,” thought he, “to whom Arabic seems 
a vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy of 


A fact. 
24 


370 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. XI. 


an answer ! ” not reflecting that as lions come from the Sahara, 
they have quite enough of Arabic at home, and that the question 
about the Hegira was rather mal a propos to one used to prey on 
the flesh of hadjis. “ Now I only wish he would vouchsafe me a 
little of his learning,” thought the boy to himself, and in this wish 
he was at iVst gratified ; for the Lion, after asking him whether 
he was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian languages, and 
being informed that he was not, absolutely dumb-foundered him 
by a display of Sclavonian erudition. 

Years rolled by — the writer was a good deal about, sometimes 
in London, sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad ; in 
London he occasionally met the man of the spectacles, who was 
always very civil to him, and, indeed, cultivated his acquaintance. 
The writer thought it rather odd that, after he himself had become 
acquainted witjh the Sclavonian languages and literature, the man 
of the spectacles talked little or nothing about them. In a little 
time, however, the matter ceased to cause him the slightest surprise, 
for he had discovered a key to the mystery. In the meantime the 
man of spectacles was busy enough ; he speculated in commerce, 
failed, and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound ; pub- 
lished translations, of which the public at length became heartily 
tired ; having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those 
translations were got up. He managed, however, to ride out many 
a storm, having one trusty sheet-anchor — Radicalism. This he 
turned to the best advantage — writing pamphlets and articles in 
reviews, all in the Radical interest, and for which he was paid out 
of the Radical fund ; which articles and pamphlets, when Toryism 
seemed to reel on its last legs, exhibited a slight tendency to 
Whiggism. Nevertheless, his abhorrence of desertion of principle 
was so great in the time of the Duke of Wellington’s administration, 

that when S left the Whigs and went over, he told the writer, 

who was about that time engaged with him in a literary under-^ 

taking, that the said S was a fellow with a character so 

infamous, that any honest man would rather that you should spit 
in his face than insult his ears with the mention of the name of 
S . 

The literary project having come to nothing,— in which, by- 
the-bye, the writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all 
the credit, provided any credit should accrue from it, — the writer 
did not see the latter for some years, during which time consider- 
able political changes took place ; the Tories were driven from, 
and the Whigs placed in, office, both events being brought about 
by the Radicals coalescing with the Whigs, over whom they 


APPENDIX. 


371 


1854-] 


possessed great influence for the services which they had rendered. 
When the writer next visited his friend, he found him very much 
altered ; his opinions were by no means so exalted as they had 
been — he was notMisposed even to be rancorous against the Duke 
of Wellington, saying that there were worse men than he, and 
giving him some credit as a general ; a hankering after gentility 
seeming to pervade the whole family, father and sons, wife and 
daughters, all of whom talked about genteel diversions — gentility- 
novels, and even seemed to look with favour on high Churchism, 
having in former years, to all appearance, been bigoted Dissenters. 
In a little time the writer went abroad ; as, indeed, did his friend ; 
not, however, like the writer, at his own expense, but at that of 
the country — the Whigs having given him a travelling appoint- 
ment, which he held for some years, during which he is said to 
have received upwards of twelve thousand pounds of the money of 
the country, for services which will, perhaps, be found inscribed on 
certain tablets, when another Astolfo shall visit the moon. This 
appointment, however, he lost on the Tories resuming power — 
when the writer found him almost as Radical and patriotic as ever, 
just engaged in trying to get into Parliament, into which he got by 
the assistance of his Radical friends, who, in conjunction with the 
Whigs, were just getting up a crusade against the Tories, which 
they intended should be a conclusive one. 

A little time after the publication of The Bible in Spain^ 
the Tories being still in power, this individual, full of the most 
disinterested friendship for the author, was particularly anxious 
that he should be presented with an official situation, in a certain 
region a great many miles off. “You are the only person for 
that appointment,” said he ; “ you understand a great deal about 
the country, and are better acquainted with the two languages 
spoken there than any one in England. Now I love my country, 
and have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in 
Parliament, and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the 
Ministry, I shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be 
to secure your services. It is true they are Tories, but I think 
that even Tories would give up their habitual love of jobbery in 
a case like yours, and for once show themselves disposed to be 
honest men and gentlemen ; indeed, I have no doubt they will ; 
for, having so deservedly an infamous character, they would be 
glad to get themselves a little credit, by a presentation which 
could not possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism.” The 
writer begged his friend to give himself no trouble about the 
matter, as he was not desirous of the appointment, being in toler- 


37 ^ 


APPENDIX, 


[chap. XI. 


ably easy circumstances, and willing to take some rest after a life 
of labour. All, however, that he could say was of no use, his 
friend infdignantly observing that the matter ought to be taken 
entirely out of his hands, and the appointment thrust upon him 
for the credit of the country. “ But may not many people be far 
more worthy of the appointment than myself? ” said the writer. 
“Where?” said the friendly Radical. “If you don’t get it, it 
will be made a job of, given to the son of some steward, or, perhaps, 
to some quack who has done dirty work ; I tell you what, I shall 
ask it for you, in spite of you ; I shall, indeed ! ” and his eyes flashed 
with friendly and patriotic fervour through the large pair of spec- 
tacles which he wore. 

And, in fact, it would appear that the honest and friendly 
patriot put his threat into execution. “ I have spoken/’ said he, 
“ more than once to this and that individual in Parliament, and 
everybody seems to think that the appointment should be given 
to you. Nay, that you should be forced to accept it. I intend 

next to speak to Lord A .” ^ And so he did, at least it would 

appear so. On the writer calling upon him one evening, about a 
week afterwards, in order to take leave of him, as the writer was 
about to take a long journey for the sake of his health, his friend 
no sooner saw him than he started up in a violent fit of agitation, 
and glancing about the room, in which there were several people, 
amongst others two Whig members of Parliament, said : “ I am 
glad you are come, I was just speaking about you. This,” said 
he, addressing the two members, “ is so-and-so, the author of so- 
and-so, the well-known philologist ; as I was telling you, I spoke 
to Lord A ^ this day about him, and said that he ought forth- 
with to have the head appointment in ^ ; and what did the 

fellow say ? Why, that there was no necessity for such an appoint- 
ment at all, and if there were, why and then he hummed 

and ha’d. Yes,” said he, looking at the writer, “ he did indeed. 
What a scandal ! what an infamy ! But I see how it will be, it 
will be a job. The place will be given to some son of a steward 
or to some quack, as I said before. Oh, these Tories ! Well, if 

this does not make one ” Here he stopped short, crunched 

his teeth, and looked the image of desperation. 

Seeing the poor man in this distressed condition, the writer 
begged him to be comforted, and not to take the matter so much to 
heart ; but the indignant Radical took the matter very much to 
heart, and refused all comfort whatever, bouncing about the room, 


^ MS» "Aberdeen.' 


APPENDIX. 


373 


1854-] 


and, whilst his spectacles flashed in the light of four spermaceti 
candles, exclaiming : “ It will be a job— a Tory job ! I see it all, 
I see it all, I see it all ! ” 

And a job it proved, and a very pretty job, but no Tory job. 
Shortly aftewards the Tories were out, and the Whigs were in. 
From that time the writer heard not a word about the injustice 
done to the country, in not presenting him with the appointment 

to ; the Radical, however, was busy enough to obtain the 

appointment, not for the writer, but for himself, and eventually 
succeeded, partly through Radical influence, and partly through 
that of a certain Whig lord, for whom the Radical had done, on 
a particular occasion, work of a particular kind. So, though the 
place was given to a quack, and the whole affair a very pretty job, 
it was one in which the Tories had certainly no hand. 

In the meanwhile, however, the friendly Radical did not drop 
the writer. Oh, no ! On various occasions he obtained from the 
writer all the information about the country in question, and was 
particularly anxl^s to obtain from the writer, and eventually did 
obtain, a copy of a work written in the court language of that 
country, edited by the writer, a language exceedingly difficult, 
which the writer, at the expense of a considerable portion of his 
eyesight, had acquired, at least as far as by the eyesight it could 
be acquired. What use the writer s friend made of the knowledge 
he had gained from him, and what use he made of the book, the 
writer can only guess ; but he has little doubt that when the 
question of sending a person to was mooted in a Parlia- 

mentary Committee — which it was at the instigation of the Radical 
supporters of the writer’s friend — the Radical on being examined 
about the country, gave the information which he had obtained 
from the writer as his own, and flashed the book and its singular 
characters in the eyes of the Committee ; and then of course his 
Radical friends would instantly say : “This is the man! there is 
no one like him. See what information he possesses ; and see 
that book written by himself in the court language of Serendib. 
This is the only man to send there. What a glory, what a triumph 
it would be to Britain, to send out a man so deeply versed in 
the mysterious lore of , as our illustrious countryman ; a per- 

son who with his knowledge could beat with their own weapons 

the wise men of ! Is such an opportunity to be lost? Oh, 

no, surely not ; if it is, it will be an eternal disgrace to England, 
and the world will see that Whigs are no better than Tories.” 

Let no one think the writer uncharitable in these suppositions. 
The writer is only too well acquainted with the antecedents of 


374 


APPENDIX. 


[chap. XI. 


the^ individual, to entertain much doubt that he would shrink 
from any such conduct, provided he thought that his temporal 
interest would be forwarded by it. The writer is aware of more 
than one instance in which he has passed off the literature of 
friendless young men for his own, after making them a slight 
pecuniary compensation and deforming what was originally ex- 
cellent by interpolations of his own. This was his especial 
practice with regard to translation, of which he would fain be 
esteemed the king. This Radical literato is slightly acquainted 
with four or five of the easier dialects of Europe, on the strength 
of which knowledge he would fain pass for a universal linguist, 
publishing translations of pieces originally written in various 
difficult languages ; which translations, however, were either made 
by himself from literal renderings done for him into French or 
German, or had been made from the originals into English, by 
friendless young men, and then deformed by his alterations. 

Well, the Radical got the appointment, and the writer cer- 
tainly did not grudge it him. He, of course, was aware that his 
friend had behaved in a very base manner towards him, but he 
bore him no ill-will, and invariably when he heard him spoken 
against, which was frequently the case, took his part when no 
other person would ; indeed, he could well afford to bear him no 
ill-will. He had never sought for the appointment, nor wished for 
it, nor, indeed, ever believed himself to be qualified for it. He was 
conscious, it is true, that he was not altogether unacquainted with 
the language and literature of the country with which the appoint- 
ment was connected. He was likewise aware that he was not 
altogether deficient in courage and in propriety of behaviour. He 
knew that his appearance was not particularly against him, his 
face not being like that of a convicted pickpocket, nor his gait 
resembling that of a fox who has lost his tail ; yet he never believed 
himself adapted for the appointment, being aware that he had no 
aptitude for the doing of dirty work, if called to do it, nor pliancy 
which would enable him to submit to scurvy treatment, whether 
he did dirty work or not — requisites, at the time of which he is 
speaking, indispensable in every British official ; requisites, by- 
the-bye, which his friend, the Radical, possessed in a high degree ; 
but though he bore no ill-will towards his friend, his friend bore 
anything but good-will towards him ; for from the moment that 
he had obtained the appointment for himself, his mind was filled 
with the most bitter malignity against the writer, and naturally 
enough ; for no one ever yet behaved in a base manner towards 
another, without forthwith conceiving a mortal hatred against him. 


.APPENDIX. 


375 


1854-] 


You wrong another, know yourself to have acted basely, and are 
enraged, not against yourself— for no one hates himself— but 
against the innocent cause of your baseness; reasoning very 
plausibly, “ But for that fellow, I should never have been base ; 
for had he not existed, I could not have been so, at any rate 
against him ” ; and this hatred is all the more bitter, when you 
reflect that you have been needlessly base. 

Whilst the Tories are in power the writer s friend, of his own 
accord, raves against the Tories because they do not give the 
writer a certain appointment, and makes, or says he makes, 
desperate exertions to make them do so ; but no sooner are the 
Tories out, with whom he has no influence, and the Whigs in, 
with whom he, or rather his party, has influence, than he gets the 
place for himself, though, according to his own expressed opinion 
— an opinion with which the writer does not, and never did, con- 
cur — the writer was the only person competent to hold it. Now 
had he, without saying a word to the writer, or about the writer 
with respect to the employment, got the place for himself when he 
had an opportunity, knowing, as he very well knew, himself to be 
utterly unqualified for it, the transaction, though a piece of jobbery, 
would not have merited the title of a base transaction ; as the 
matter stands, however, who can avoid calling the whole affair not 
only a piece of — come, come, out with the word — scoundrelism on 
the part of the writer’s friend, but a most curious piece of uncalled- 
for scoundrelism ? and who, with any knowledge of fallen human 
nature, can wonder at the writer’s friend entertaining towards him 
a considerable portion of gall and malignity ? 

This feeling on the part of the writer’s friend was wonderfully 
increased by the appearance of Lavengro, many passages of which 
the Radical in his foreign appointment applied to himself and 
family — one or two of his children having gone over to Popery, 
the rest become members of Mr. Platitude’s chapel, and the minds 
of all being filled with ultra notions of gentility. 

The writer, hearing that his old friend had returned to Eng- 
land, to apply, he believes, for an increase of salary, and for a 
title, called upon him, unwillingly, it is true, for he had no wish to 
see a person for whom, though he bore him no ill-will, he could 
not avoid feeling a considerable portion of contempt ; the truth is, 
that his sole object in calling was to endeavour to get back a piece 
of literary property which his friend haS obtained from him many 
years previously, and which, though he had frequently applied for 
it, he never could get back. Well, the writer called ; he did not 
get his property, which, indeed, he had scarcely time to press for. 


376 


APPENDIX, 


[chap. XI. ' 


being almost instantly attacked by his good friend and his wife — 
yes, it was then that the author was set upon by an old Radical 
and his wife — the wife, who looked the very image of shame and 
malignity, did not say much, it is true, but encouraged her husband 
in all he said. Both of their own accord introduced the subject 
of Lavengro. The Radical called the writer a grumbler, just as if 
there had ever been a greater grumbler than himself until, by the 
means above described, he had obtained a place ; he said that the 
book contained a melancholy view of human nature — just as if 
anybody could look in his face without having a melancholy view 
of human nature. On the writer quietly observing that the book 
contained an exposition of his principles, the pseudo-Radical 
replied, that he cared nothing for his principles — which was pro- 
bably true, it not being likely that he would care for another 
person’s principles after having shown so thorough a disregard for 
his own. The writer said that the book, of course, would give 
offence to humbugs ; the Radical then demanded whether he 
thought him a humbug — the wretched wife was the Radical’s 
protection, even as he knew she would be ; it was on her account 
that the writer did not kick his good friend ; as it was, he looked 
at him in the face and thought to himself, “ How is it possible I 
should think you a humbug, when only last night I was taking 
your part in a company in which everybody called you a hum- 
bug?” 

The Radical, probably observing something in the writer’s eye 
which he did not like, became all on a sudden abjectly submissive, 
and, professing the highest admiration for the writer, begged him 
to visit him in his government ; this the writer promised faithfully 
to do, and he takes the present opportunity of performing his 
promise. 

This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro 
and its author ; were the writer on his death-bed he would lay his 
hand on his heart and say, that he does not believe that there is 
one trait of exaggeration in the portrait which he has drawn. This 
is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its 
author; and this is one of the genus, who, after having railed 
against jobbery for perhaps a quarter of a century, at present 
batten on large official salaries which they do not earn. England 
is a great country, and her interests require that she should have 
many a well-paid official both at home and abroad ; but will Eng- 
land long continue a great country if the care of her interests, both 
at home and abroad, is in many instances intrusted to beings like 
him described above, whose only recommendation for an official 


APPENDIX. 


377 


1854-] 


appointment was that he was deeply versed in the secrets of his 
party and of the Whigs? 

Before he concludes, the writer will take the liberty of saying 
of Lavengro that it is a book written for the express purpose of 
inculcating virtue, love of country, learning, manly pursuits, and 
genuine religion, for example, that of the Church of England, and 
for awakening a contempt for nonsense of every kind, and a hatred 
for priestcraft, more especially that of Rome. 

And in conclusion, with respect to many passages of his book 
in which he has expressed himself in terms neither measured nor 
mealy, he will beg .leave to observe, in the words of a great poet, 
who lived a profligate life, it is true, but who died a sincere peni- 
tent — thanks, after God, to good Bishop Burnet — 

“ All this with indignation I have hurl’d 
At the pretending part of this proud world, 

Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise 
False freedoms, formal cheats, and holy lies. 

Over their fellow fools to tyrannise.” 

— Rochester. 


THE END. 








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NOTES TO THE ROMANY RYE, 

WITH 

CORRECTIONS, IDENTIFICATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS. 

Pages. The 'man in black: The Rev. Fraser. See pp. '24-25, and 
“Arbuthnot” in Bibliog. — Barbarini, read Barberini: Urban VIII., pope 
1623-44. — 6. Nipotismo di Roma : See “ Leti ” in Bibliog. — Ganga- 
nelli: Clement XIV., pope, 1769-74. — 10. Mezzofanti: So here and else- 
where in Romany Rye; Mezzofente in Lavengro — Cardinal Giuseppe, 
1774-1849, the celebrated linguist. — Leon the Isaurian: Reigned at 
Constantinople from 717-741. — ii. Ignacio: Spanish form of Ignatius. — 
14. Omani batsikhom: Manchu Tartar form of prayer given elsewhere by 
Borrow as Oum-nia-ni-bat-mi-houm. See Life, i., p. 176. — 15. Bellissima 
Biondina (It.) : Fairest of blondes. — 16. Sono un Prete, etc. (It.) : I am a 
Roman Catholic Priest. — 19. Zamarra (Sp.) : A sheep-skin jacket with the 
wool outside. — Carajo : An oath fit neither to be written nor pronounced, 
but common to the lower classes of Spaniards, or to ambitious foreign 
Hispanophiles who cannot know its meaning. See Gudin’s Tesoro, Pans, 
1607. — 20. Scotch blood : He was, then, a Fraser of Lovat, of whom*- 
Simon Lord F. was a supporter of the last Pretender, Charles Edward 
Stuart, 1746. — Puta (Sp.) : The most offensive word for harlot. — Alcoran 
des Cordeliers, i.e., “ the Franciscans’ Coran ” : A blasphemous work written 
in 1399 in Latin by Bartolommeo Albizzi (Albitius) ; first published in printed 
form at Milan in 1510, then by Luther in 1542 with his peculiar comments, 
and finally in French at Geneva, 1556. See “ Albizzi ” in the Bibliog. — 
22. Bible: The price of the old apple-woman’s Bible was, it will be re- 
membered, one half-crown {Lavengro, p. 264).— 23. Alexander VI. : Pope 
1492-1503. He was a Spaniard of Valencia, and his family name was 
Rodrigo Borja, in It. Borgia. — 24. L’opere sue, etc.: His deeds were not 
those of lions, but of foxes — a slight alteration of Dante’s L'opere mie, etc. 
See L'lnf., xxvii., st. 25. — 25. Oime (It.): Alas! — To . . ., read Rome. 
— Sir John D., read Sir Thomas Dereham: A follower of the Stuarts; he 
died in 1739, and his monument stands in the English College at Rome. — 
There is at . . ., read Rome. — Yes, per Dio (It.) : By Heaven ! 

Page 25. Parsons and Garnet: Two English Jesuits — Robert Parsons 
(1547-1610), superior to the Catholic Missions in England, and Henry Garnet 
(1555-1606), hanged because he refused to reveal the secrets of the confes- 
sional in connection with the Gunpowder Plot. — No hay remedio (Sp.) : 
There is no help for it.— 26. Inserted it: In vol. iv., p. 330. — 32. Calanes: 

A Spanish hat worn by the lower classes, having the rim turned up against the 
crown. — There’s a chovahanee, etc. ; The full ditty runs thus in one of 
Borrow’s MSS. : — 

(379) 


380 


NOTES. 


“THE PETULENGRES. 

“ There’s a chovahanee and a chovahano, 

The nav se lende Petulengro ; 

Sore the chaves ’dre their ten 

Are chories and lubbenies — tatchipen,” 

which reading corrects that of the text. — 34. Flaming Bosville: Anselo 
Herne. See p. 67, and note to Lavengro, p. 363. — 37. Gentleman Cooper and 
White-headed Bob : i.e., George Cooper and Ned Baldwin, who fought on 
the 5th of July, 1825, according to Pearce Egan’s Boxiana, v., pp. 61 and 80. 
Observe that the date harmonises perfectly with the chronology of the 
expedition. — 38. Brynhildathe Valkyrie, or Amazon, was the wife of Gunnar 
and friend of Sigurd. Seethe Edds. in Bibliog. Sigurd, called Fafnisbane 
or the Slayer of Fafnir, was a heroic character frequently mentioned in the 
Edda, the Wilkina Saga, Snorro’s Heimskringla, and Saxo-Grammaticus. 
In the Wilkina he is Sigurdr Sveinn, in the old Danish Heroic Ballads 
(Kiaempeviser) he is Sigurd Snaresvend (Sorrow’s “ Snareswayne ”), and 
Siegfrid in the Lay of the Nibelungs. Sivard or Sivord is a German variety 
of the same name. 

Page 40. Feasting : This rustic banquet was offered to Sylvester and 
Ursula who were married that day, although our “ rye ” was not aware of the 
fact till later. The song was built up by our author from a very slender 
prose draft, which I find in its earliest form given thus 


I. “ GRABBING THE BAULO. 

“ We jaws to the drab-engro and lels dui or trin hors-worth of drab, and 
when we wels to the sweti we pens we can have a drab at a baulo. Then 
we kairs it opre, and jaws to a farm-ker to mang a bit of habben, and then 
we pens : ‘ Chuva lis acai and dov-odoy baulo will lei it, and to-morrow sorlu 
we’ll wel apopli and mang it And so we kairs, and on the sorlu when 
we’ve got it, we toves it well ; we kins levinor at the kitchema, and have 
a kosko habben. The boshom-engro plays {kils), and the tawni juva gils, a 
kosko puro Rommany guillie.” Then follows the gillie nearly as in the 
text. 


2. “ GRABBING THE BAULO. 

“ To mande shoon ye Rommany Chals 
Who besh in the pus about the yag 
I’ll pen how we drab the baulo. 

“ We jaws to the drab-engro ker 
Trin horsworth there of drab we lels 
And when to the swety back we wels 
We pens we’ll drab the baulo. 


“ And then we kairs the drab opre. 
And then we jaws to the farming ker 
To mang a beti habben, 

A beti poggado habben. 


NOTES, 


381 


“ A rinkeno baulo there we dick, 

And then we pens in Rommany jih : 

‘ Chiv lis odoy oprey the chick, 

The haulo he will lei lis. 

The haulo he will lei lis. 

“ ‘ Apopli on the sorlo we 
Will wel and mang him mullo. 

Will wel and mang his truppo.’ 

“ And so we kairs, and so we kairs. 

We mang him on the sorlo. 

And rig to the tan the haulo. 

. V 

“ And then we toves his wendror well 
Till sore the wendror iuziou sie. 

Till kekkeno drah’s adrey lis. 

Till drah there’s kek adrey lis. 

“ And then his truppo well we hatch, 

Kin levinor at the kitchema. 

And have a kosko hahhen, 

A kosko Rommano hahhen. 

“ The hoshom-engro kils, he kils, 

The tawni juva gils, she gils, 

A puro Rommany gillie. 

Now shoon the Rommany gillie.” 

3. The third and last MS. is complete, hut varies considerably from the 
printed text, Romany is written with two m’s, as in Lavengro throughout ; 
in the fourth verse it reads; “In Rommany chib: chiv lis odoy opre the 
chik" ; fourth line omits and" ; in the fifth and sixth verses it gives 
“ sorlo ” properly, instead of “ saulo ” ; in seventh verse it reads “ his 
wendror,” and in the last, “ boshom-engro " and “ tawni ”. 

From all these variants it results that MS. No. 3 furnishes a better 
reading than the printed text. 

Page 42. Ursula’s Song’: By the aid of the Gypsy list at the end of 
this volume, the translation can be easily made out by the curious reader. — 
46. Piramus : In MS. also Priamus. — Sanpriel : Corrupt form of Sanspareil, 
unrivalled. — Synfye : Slavonic form of Cynthia — th in Russian is pronounced 
ph or /; Thomas, Fomas. — 47. Life of Charles: Add Xllth. — 48. The 
church : Mentioned as three miles from the dingle, and on pp. 53, no, as 
at M., has not yet been discovered. — 58. The Edda : Early Icelandic literary 
monuments, consisting of the Elder or Poetic Edda collected by Sasmund, 
and the later or Prose Edda collected by Snorro Sturleson, See Mallet’s 
Northern Antiquities, Bohn’s Edition. — Sagas: Early historical tales 
handed down by oral tradition. See Bibliog. — 67* Anselo Herne : 
His clan-name. See note to p. 363 of Lavengro. 68 , Pulci : Luigi Pulci 
{1432-87). See Bibliog. — 69. Ingravidata (It.) : With child. — E nacquene, 
etc. : “ And of her a son was born, says story, who subsequently gave 
great victory to Charlemagne ”. — 71. Fortiguerra : Niccolo Fortiguerra 
(1674-1735). He did not live to print his voluminous poem entitled Ric- 


382 


NOTES. 


ciardetto, having died in 1735, just “ ninety years ” from the date 1825, as 
our text declares.— 76. Slammocks, etc. : Norwich worthies, I suppose ; at 
least I do not find them in the Boxiana at my command. — 89. The Armenian 
in this (xivth) chapter I find correct. Hramahyel should have been given 
hramaiyel, hntal, etc., khntal (xvrdx), and madagh, madag. See ‘‘ Villotte ” 
in the Bibliog. — 91. Hard-mouthed jade : This favourite expression of Mr. 
Borrow’s proceeds, I opine, from his readings in the quaint eighteenth 
century literature with which his library abounded. In Defoe’s Moll 
Flanders, p. 301, edition of 1722, we read: “The witnesses were the two 
wenches, a couple of hard moxith'd jades indeed ”. And on p. 323 : “ A 
hard mouth'd man ”. — ^93. Brynhilda : See note to p. 38. — 133-34. "The 
“daffodil” poet: William Wordsworth (1770-1850). — 141. Carlo Borro- 
meo : The Cardinal saint, born 1538, died 1584. — 143. Bricconi abbasso 
(It.) : “ Down with the rogues ! ” 

Page 157. Friar Bacon: The celebrated scientist Roger Bacon (1214- 
94) was fated, like Virgil, to be popularly metamorphosed into a magician 
and conjuror. Hence the “ Friar Bacon ” series of chap-books, extending 
(so far as we know them) from the sixteenth century to the present. I will 
give the passage referred to by Mr. Borrow, so that it may be seen that the 
myth had no reference to the railway. No. 3 in Bibliog., leaf 8 : — 

“ Chapter V. How Miles watched the Brazen-head, and in the end went 
away from his master. 

“ Fryer Bacon, having performed many wonderful things by his 
curious Art, was now sifting out how he might wall England with brass ; 
wherefore he and Fryer Bungy, when they had raised the devil, bound him 
to a tree, for to make him tell them how it might be performed. He told 
them that they should make a Brazen-head, which (if they could watch it 
till it spoke) would tell them how it might be done. The head was made, 
and they watched till they could watch no longer. At last Fryer Bungey 
persuaded Fryer Bacon to let his man Miles watch while they slept ; to 
which the Fryer agreed. Then Miles was called, who undertook to awake 
them when the Head would speak. So to sleep they went, and Miles expected 
some great speech to come from the Head. At last the Head cryed, ‘ TIME 
IS ’ ; at which Miles fell into a great laughter, and made his scoffs and jears 
thereat. Then it said, ‘ TIME WAS' ; but yet he would not awake his 
master, counting them but silly and frivolous words. Lastly, the Head said, 

‘ TIME IS PAST ' ; at which words down it fell, and in falling made such 
a noise that it awakened the two Fryers, and had almost affrighted poor 
Miles out of his senses,” etc. 

Page 158. L . . ., read Liverpool ; C . . ., read Chester. — 162. Brooke 
of Borneo: Sir James Brooke, Rajah of Sarawak (1803-68), George 
Borrow’s school-mate at Norwich in 1816-17-18. — 165. “ Vails ” : He means, 
of course, — 175-6-7. Romanvile : London. See “ English Rogue ” in 
Bibl. — 176. The chi she is kaulo (read kauley), etc. : “ The lass she is black, 
she sleeps upon her back ”.—177-78. Sivord : Or Sivard, the same as Sigurd, 
called the Snaresvend (“ Snareswayne ” on the next page). See note to p. 
38, and Romantic Ballads, 1826, pp. 83 and 90. For the reason of Borrow’s 
changing the Danish svend into “swayne,” see Life, ii., p. 269. — The horse 
Grayman : i.e., the “ Skimming gray ” of p. 96, Romantic Ballads. — 183. 
The Maugrabin sorcerer: The “ African Magician ” in Lane’s translation. 
There is in this passage of The Romany Rye evidently a confusion of two of 
the tales in the Arabian Nights — those of Aladdin and Sindbad, fifth voyage. 
—221. Isten (pron. tshten) : Hung, for God.— 222. Magyar (pron. mddjr) : 


NOTES. 


383 


A Hungarian.— 223. Tekeli (1658-1705).— L’Eau de la Reine d’Hongrie, 
read de Hongrie, h being aspirate in this word. — Pig’ault- Lebrun (Charles), 
1753-1835 ; Les Barons de Felsheim, Paris, 1822. — Ersebet, read Erszebet, 
Elisabeth. — Florentius of Buda : Flourished 1790-1805. See “ Budai 
Ferencz ” in the Bibliog, — 224. Almus, or Almos {dlmosh), died 889. The 
Hungarian scholar Vamberi, has exploded the “ dream ” (or rather “ sleep ”) 
theory heretofore entertained with regard to the origin of the name Almos ; 
he says it is an epithet, meaning the Great, the Sublime, the Noble, the 
Glorious [Ursprung, pp. 62, 156). — 225 (228 and elsewhere), Dunau, read 
Donau, Germ, for Danube. — Kiraly and Haz ; The former comes from the 
Servian Kralj {Ij like Span, ll or Port. Ih), which the Hungarian lengthened 
into kir-dly, not finding it convenient to pronounce kr} As for haz, from 
haus (Austrian pop. pronunciation hos), we are told by Vamberi that the 
ancient form was not haz, but hoz [Ursp., p. 556). — 226. Janos (pron. Yanosh) : 
John. — 228. Szava (Hung.) : The Save. — 229. Laszlo : Ladislaus. — Cilejia : 
The Roman Claudia Celleia, now Cilly, in Carinthia. — 230. Matyas : In 
English Matthias. — Huz, read husz (Hung.) : Twenty. Vamberi questions 
this etymology of “ hussar ” (p. 283), but unsatisfactorily, we think. — 
Ulazslo : Wladislaus. — Tche Drak : The Roumanian ce dracu, but pro- 
nounced as in the text, and equivalent to the exclamation diable ! — Mohacs 
Veszedelem, read Mohacsi Veszedelem : The Disaster of Mohacs, the title 
of a poem by Baron Liszti. — 231. Batory : A mere epithet, the “ valiant ”. — 
232. Lajos (lai-osh), Louis or Lewis. — Mufti : The ulemas or Doctors of the 
(Mahomedan) law. — 233. Coloscvar, read Koloszvar, in German, Klausen- 
burg. — Budai’ Ferencz : See Bibliog. — 235. Rysckie Tsar, read Rtisski 
Tsar : The Russian Emperor. — Plescova, now Pskov. — Ivan Basilowitz, 
read Vasilievitch, known as Ivan the Terrible. — 236. Izbushka (Russ.) : Hut. 
— Tyzza, read Tisza : The river Theiss. — Kopacs Teto, read Kopcisz Teto. 
— Kassau, read Kaschau. — 239. Eljen edes, etc. (pron. elyen edesh tsigdn oor, 
elyen goal erdi) : “ Long live the sweet Gypsy gentleman, long live the gudlo 
Rye ”. — 241. Roth-'Welsch : The German for Thieves’ Slang. — Tzernebock, 
read Tchernobog {g like Germ, ch) : Black god, evil principle. — Bielebock, 
read Bielbog : White god, the good principle. — 242. Saxo-Gramaticus, read 
Grammaticus, see Bibliog. — Fekete (Hung.) ; Black. — 246. Erik Bloodaxe 
(Danish Bloddxe) : King of Norway, Snorro, 1633, p. 64. — 256. Regner 
Lodbrok : “ Regnar ” in Icelandic ; Borrow gives the Danish form of this 
king’s name. See his famous Death Song'm Mallet, pp. 383-85. — Halgerdr, 
read Halgerda, Mallet, pp. 340-41.— 257. Biorn, read Bjorn, and Ivarr, Ivar. 
— 258. ’Verdammt (Germ.) : Confounded. 

Page 262. “Wife selling”: A very common practice among a certain 
class, it seems, in England ; and, as this will hardly be credited in America, 
I will append some extracts from the newspapers. The Norfolk Chronicle 
of 5th May, 1894, says : “ The belief formerly prevailed, especially among 
the rural population, that a man had a perfectly legal right to sell his wife 
to another, provided he observed two indispensable formalities. One was 
that he placed a halter about her neck, and the other that he led her into 
the market and publicly transferred her to the purchaser. N umerous instances 
of these strange transactions have been recorded. Our columns, on the 9th 
of February, 1805, contained an account of the sale of a wife at Norwich. 
A Kentish tailor, the affections and person of whose amiable spouse had 
been jockeyed away by a neighbouring horse-dealer, caparisoned her neck 

iLike Ingiliz in Turkish, for English ; Beritania (England) in Hawaiian, for 
Britannia. 


384 


NOTES. 


with a halter and surrendered all right and title to his virtuous rib, in con- 
sideration of the sum of £5. On the 2nd of May, 1823, a sirnilar sale was 
effected in this city. A man named Stebbings disposed of his wife to a person 
named Turner for the sum of £6 los. The latter paid £/^ on account, took 
the woman home, and brutally turned his lawful wife out of doors.” 

The London Daily Mail of ist March, i8gg, prints the following : — 

“ Very few people are aware that wives are literally sold to-day in 
England. A very common error of the vulgar is that a man by selling his 
wife releases himself from the marriage contract as surely as if he were 
legally divorced. In March, lygb. The Times announced the sale of a wife 
at Sheffield for sixpence. A short time afterwards the same journal calmly 
stated that the price of wives has risen in Smithfield Market from half a 
guinea to three guineas and a half! In 1803 a man led his wife, by a 
halter round her neck, into the cattle market at Sheffield, and sold her for a 
guinea, the purchaser leading away the woman to his home. In 1820 a man 
named Brouchet hired a cattle-pen in the Canterbury market, placed his wife 
in it, and ultimately sold her for 5s. Then wives began to increase in value, 
for soon afterwards one was sold for ;£’i5. This was followed by a ‘ slump ’. 
In 1855 ^ his wife with a halter round her waist into Derby market- 

place and offered her for sale, but all he could get for her was eighteen pence 
and a quart of ale. In 1873 a husband left his home and creditors in Belper 
for the liberty of America. The week after his flight all his goods were put 
up for auction to satisfy his debts. His wife claimed part of the money, and 
this being refused she insisted on being offered for sale as part of her hus- 
band’s assets. There was no sale, however, for ‘ Lot 2g ’. In even more 
recent days wife sales were common, and are even being effected in this 
present year of grace. In 1882 John Wilson, a collier of Alfreton, Derby- 
shire, sold his wife in a public-house for fourpence. Sheffield knife-grinders 
have long been noted for their transactions in the wife trade. Within quite 
recent times many a Sheffield wife has been sold by her husband for a gallon 
of beer, which has been drunk on the spot. Sometimes these sales assume 
a more formal aspect. In 1887, in the Sheffield County Court, a man 
admitted that he had bought another man’s wife for 5s. Most of these 
discreditable ‘ deals ’ escape notice, but a case has come to light where a man 
agreed to sell his wife to a collier, and the trio, with the woman’s father 
and mother and two family friends, assembled to arrange terms. Thirty 
shillings was the price finally agreed on. Four years ago, at Leeds, a man 
charged with bigamy pleaded that, as he had sold his wife for 3s. 6d. to 
another man, he could marry again legally ! Eighteen months’ imprisonment 
was what he got, and more than deserved. A police court case in i8g6 at 
Doncaster revealed the fact that John Tart sold his wife to Enoch Childs, 
on the understanding that the latter reared the vendor’s four children. In a 
Durham court in iflgq it transpired that a man named Shaw sold his 
daughter, a girl of sixteen, to a collier called Cudman, for is. Many a wife 
is at present sold in the East End of London, as well as in Yorkshire, for a 
quart of beer or an ounce of thick twist. It is the poor man’s method of 
divorce, and such is popular ignorance that there are scores of people who 
imagine that selling a wife is as legal a separation as a decree nisi pronounced 
by a bewigged and berobed judge.” 

Page 265. Herodotus ; The story is found in Thalia III., 84-88 (pp. 
208-g of Cary’s Eng. translation). The groom’s name was (E bares . — 
266. Deagfhblasda, read deaghhhlasda (Ir.) ; Sweet-tasted, dainty. This 
is the soothing word hinted at, but not given, in Lavengro, p. 83. — 269. At 


NOTES. 


385 


H . . read Hertford, where John Thurtell was hanged, gth January, 1824. 
— Ned Flatnose : Ed. Painter of Norwich.— 270. Spring : His true name was 
i:homa.s Winter ; see Lavengro, p. 168. He died 20th August, 1851.— 276. 
. . . Fair, read Greenwich Fair, on Easter Monday. See Dickens’ Sketches. 
—279. Qilien (and p. 295, Oilein) nan Naomha, read Oilean na Naomhtha 
(Ir.): Island of the Saints (Patrick and Columba).— Finn-ma-Coul : The 
tale of Finn was first learned by Borrow in January, 1854, from his Irish 
guide Cronan, while travelling in Cornwall {Life, ii., p. 86, and note). 
This fact shows that Murtagh and his tale are introduced here to exhibit 
the author’s discovery of the identity between the Finn of Ireland and the 
Eddaic tradition [of Sigurd Fafnisbane (p. 281). For Sigurd in the Wilkina 
Saga is suckled by a hind (p. 120) and fostered by Mymmer Smed or Mimer 
the Smith (p. 121) whom he eventually slays (p. 124). In the Eddaic Lay 
of the serpent-killer we read : “ Sigurd took the heart of Fafnir and broiled 
it on a spit. And when he judged that it was done, he touched it with his 
finger to ascertain if that were really the case. Having burned his finger in 
the act, he put it to his mouth, and no sooner had the heart’s blood of Fafnir 
come in contact with Sigurd’s tongue than he understood the speech of 
birds,” etc. Here we have the two sides verified, the Irish by Cronan, and 
the Scandian by the Edda. But Brooke’s Reliques, a favourite work of 
Borrow’s in his Norwich ‘days, and which he cites in 1832 {Life, i., p. 146), 
give us certain other fragments of these Finnic fables, whereby we can trace 
the sources of the text before us. For example, after Jack Dale had stripped 
Murtagh of all his money he is observed to be sitting “ in deep despondency, 
holding his thumb to his mouth ” (p. 278). And a little farther on (p. 282) 
a verse is cited from “ Conan the Bald Now all this is found in Miss 
Brooke, that is, the names and the ideas — Conan the Bald (p. 106), Lochlin (p. 
46), and Darmod Odeen (minus Taffy) and the verse with this note (p. 109) : — 
“ This strange passage is explained by some lines in the Poem of Dub- 
mac- Dighruibh, where Finn is reproached with deriving all his courage from 
chewing his thumb for prophetic information.” — 281. Siol Loughlin, read 
Lochlin (Ir.) : Literally “ the seed of Norway,” f.^., the Danish or Norwegian 
race. Miss Brooke very properly says (p. 46) : “ Lochlin is the Gaelic (and 
Irish) name for Scandinavia in general ” ; but Borrow limits it to Denmark 
— the Danish race. And a little below, “ the Loughlin songs ” are his Danish 
Ballads which he published the following year. 

Page 283. The story of Murtagh at the Irish College in Rome, and his 
subsequent wanderings in the South of France and in Spain, mask, as we 
have said elsewhere, the peregrinations of George Borrow in 1826-27. — 286. 
M’anam on Dioul : Explained in Lavengro, note to p. 65. — 291. Dungarvon 
times of old : See Life, i., p. 46, and ii., pp. 16-17. Cradock’s letter was dated, 
i8th August, 1849, and Mr. B.’s answer (i., p. 146) a little after. — Raparees : 
Irish marauders, temp. James II. See Life, i., p. 146, and Brooke’s Reliques, 
p. 205. The latter says that the word is from the Irish Reuhoir Ri, plunderer, 
robber, freebooter of the king, from reubaim, I tear. — 292. Chiviter Vik : 
Civita Vecchia, the modern seaport of Rome, fifty miles distant. — Army of 
the Faith : Spanish frontier corps of observation under Gen. Don Vicente 
Quesada, 1823-24. — Prince Hilt; The Duke d’Angouleme, nephew of Louis 
XVHL, and son of the Count d’ Artois (afterwards Charles X.). D’Angouleme 
invaded Spain in 1823 with 100,000 Frenchmen, to restore Ferdinand VII. 
to his absolute throne, against the Liberals of 1820-23. — 298. To . . read 
Rome. — At . . read Rome. — Educated at . . ., read Rome. — 300. Direc- 
tion of the east, read south. He could only have gone south from Horn- 


25 


386 


NOTES. 


castle to reach Boston (the “ large town on the arm of the sea ”) that day. 
The next he came to Spalding, some fifteen miles farther, where he met the 
recruiting serjeant, thence on to Norwich by Lynn Regis. 

We must not forget that before Lavengro was begun, and [fifteen years 
prior to the publication of The Romany Rye, that is, 26th December, 1842, 
Mr. Petulengro remarked to George Borrow at Oulton ; “ I suppose you 
have not forgot how, fifteen [seventeen] years ago, when you made horse- 
shoes in the dingle by the side of the great north road, I lent you fifty guineas 
to purchase the wonderful trotting cob of the innkeeper with the green New- 
market coat, which three days after you sold for two hundred Now, this 
is a very remarkable statement, and, taken in connection with the fact that 
so little is said about Horncastle in the book, it seems to me we are justified 
in proclaiming that Borrow was never in Horncastle at all. The interview 
with the Magyar and the syllabus of Hungarian history are clearly drawn 
from his experiences in Hungary and Transylvania in the year 1844, and 
hence are an anachronism here. It is a pity that the author did not adhere 
to the chronological facts of his life so strictly in The Romany Rye as he did 
in Lavengro. Truth and literature would have gained by it. And then that 
valedictory pledge,^ confirmed in the appendix, drawing a veil over the 
period of his travails, if not his travels, was an error of judgment which, 
in an autobiography will, we fear, not easily be condoned. 


APPENDIX. . 

Page 302. Age of nineteen, read twenty ; he was twenty-one less four 
months at his father’s death. — 303. Children of Roma: Borrovian for 
Gypsies. — 305-6. Balm in Mary Flanders : See Lavengro, note to p. 423. 
— 311. Canning : Premier from 24th April to his death, 8th August, 1827 ; 
succeeded by Viscount Goderich from September, 1827, to 25th January, 
1828.— 312. Vaya ! qu 4 demonio es este ! (Sp.) : Bless me ! what demon 
have we here ! — 314. Sessions of Hariri : Arabic tales in prose interlarded 
with verse. The two languages: Chinese and Manchu. — 315-6. Luigi 
Pulci : lo vo’ tagliar, etc. : I’ll sever the hands of them all and bring them 
to those holy monks. Tu sarai or perfetto, etc. : Now thou wilt be as true 
a friend to Christ as aforetime thou wert his foe {M. M., canto i, sts. 53 
and 57).— 318. Oberon: A poem by Wieland (1733-1813).— 319. The father 
of Anglo-Germanism : Taylor of Norwich.— Andrew Borde : (see Bibliog.), 
The text of the Bodleian copy (1547 ?) runs as follows — (A 3 verso) : — 

“ I am an Englysh man, and naked I stand here, 

Musyng in my mynd what rayment I shall were ; 

For now I wyll were thys, and now I wyl were that. 

Now I wyl were I cannot tel what. 

All new fashyons be plesaunt to me, 

I v^o^ll haue them, whether I thryue or thee ; 

Now I am a frysker, all men doth on me looke. 

What should I do but set cocke on the hoope ; 

^ Zincali, 1843, second ed., vol. ii., p. 146.* 

2 “ I think I’ll go there,” p. 301. “ He is about to quit his native land on a 

grand philological expedition,” p. 303. 


NOTES. 


387 


What do I care yf all the worlde me fayle, 

I wyl get a garment shal reche to my tayle ; 

Than I am a minion, for I were the new gyse ; 

The yere after this I trust to be wyse, 

Not only in wering my gorgious aray, 

For I wyl go to learnyng a hoole somers day ; 

I wyll learne Latyne, Hebrew, Grecke and Frenche, 

And I wyl learne Douche sittyng on my benche ; 

I do feare no man, all men fearyth me, 

I ouercome my aduersaries by land and by see ; 

I had no peere yf to my selfe I were trew. 

Because I am not so diuers times I do rew ; 

Yet I lake nothing, I haue all thyng at wyll 
If were wyse and wold holde my selfe styll, 

And medel wyth no matters not to me partayning ; 

But I haue suche matters rolling in my pate. 

That I wyl speake and do I cannot tell what.” etc. 

— 321. Mr. Flamson : Samuel Morton Peto, M.P., later Sir Morton Peto 
of Somerleyton Hall, some five miles inland from Lowestoft. See Life, ii., 
p. 52. — 327. Orcadian poet : “ Ragnvald, Earl of the Orkney Islands, passed 
for a very able poet ; he boasts himself, in a song of his which is still extant, 
that he knew how to compose verses on all subjects,” Mallet, p. 235. The 
original Runic of the lines translated by Borrow is found in Olaus Wormius. 
Transliterated into Latin letters they read thus : — 

Taji em eg or at efta 
Idrottir kan eg niu 
Turn eg tradla Runur 
T id er mer bog og smider 
Skrid kann eg a gidum 
Skot eg og re so nyter 
Hvor tweggia kan ek hyggiu 
Harpslatt og bragdattu. 

— 3^. Lieut. P. . ., read Perry. The item was taken from a newspaper 
(which, I know not) published in September, 1854. Mr. Borrow read it at 
Llangollen in Wales. I loaned the clipping and it was not returned. — 330. 
Balaklava : The usual etymon of this famous name is the Italian Bella 
chiave, beautiful key. — 331. Companion of Bligh : This was Thomas 
Hayward. — Once : See Bligh’s Narrative (Bibliog.), p. 55. — 336. “ Malditas 
sean tus tripas,” etc. : This Borrovian Spanish must be rendered truthfully 

or not at all. The squeamish may excuse the Wrac/ta ; “D yourg s; 

we had enough of the stink of your g s the day you ran away from the 

battle of the Boyne ”. — 338. Coronach (Gaelic), read Corranach : The funeral 
wail, a dirge; in Irish, cordnach. — 342. Abencerages, read Abencerrages : 
Arab, ibn-serradj ; son of the saddle. — 349-50. Whiffler : See note to Lav- 
engro, p. 225. — 352. Francis Spira : Francesco Spiera, a lawyer of Cittadella 
(Venice), accepted the doctrines of the Reformation in 1548. Terrified by 
the menaces of the Church of Rome and the prospective ruin of his family, 
he went to Venice and solemnly abjured the Evangelical faith in the hands 
of the Legate, Giovan della Casa (see Diet, de Bayle) who requited him to 
return home and repeat his abjuration before his fellow-townsmen and the 
local authorities. Having performed this act, he fell into the horrid state of 


388 


NOTES. 


remorse depicted in the Protestant accounts of the time. The report was 
first brought to Geneva by Pietro Paolo Vergerio, ex-bishop ofPola, who visited 
Spiera in his last moments at Padua, whence he himself bent his way to the 
Valtelina, as a fugitive from the Roman Church. — Duncan Campbell and 
Falconer : See Bihliog. — John Randall : Here is a confusion of John Rolfe 
and John Randolph of Roanoke (1773-1833). Pocahontas, daughter of the 
Indian Chief Powhatan, saved the life of Captain John Smith in Virginia 
and married John Rolfe in 1614. John Randolph of Roanoke claimed to be 
descended from Pocahontas, but Rolfe is evidently the one referred to in the 
text. See under “ Pocahontas ”. — 354. I riarte (1750-96) : Spanish 

poet and writer of fables. See Bibliog. — 355. Autobiographical character 
of Lavengro denied : but see Life, ii., pp. 3-27 and 21 r. — 357. Ginmingagap : 
The “yawning abyss” of Northern Mythology. See Mallet, p. 402. — 359. 
Horinger Bay : See note on Lavengro, p. 46, — 360. Harum-beck, read 
harmanbeck, as in Lavengro, p. 158. — Holkham Estate : The seat of the Cokes 
of Norfolk and the Earl of Leicester. See White’s Norfolk, and the C ... of 
Lavengro, p. 124. — 363. He said in ’32: See Life, i., p. 143. — Son of Nor- 
folk clergyman : Nelson {nom de noms !}. — 364-66. Thistlewood and Ings : 
See article in Celebrated Lives and Trials, vol. vi., p. 339. — 368. The old 
Radical : John Bowring in 1821. — Vol. of translations : See “ Bowring ” in 
Bibliog. — Red Rhys : Rhys Goch of Snowdon. See Wild Wales, p. 150, 
and “ Gorchestion ” in Bibliog. — 369. The Doctor of Medicine: Dr. Lewis 
Evans. ^ See Life, i., p. 74. — 370. S . . ., read Southey. — Literary project 
(1829-36) : See Life, i., p. 129. — 371. Astolfo : His journey to the moon men- 
tioned in Pulci, ed. 1546, Canto xxi., f. cxx. b : — 

Malagigi tagliava le parole, 

Astolfo sopra ’/ suo caval rinionta; 

Cavalcano a la Inna tanto e al sole 
Che capitorno al castcl di Creonta 

—372. In , read China .— To , read CAma.— Copy of a 

work: Borrow’s edition of the Manchu New Testament, St. Petersburg, 
1835, in 8 parts, 4to. — All the dashes mean Canton or China. — “ Serendib : 
(Ceylon) put for China. 


COMPLETE LIST OF ENG. GYPSY WORDS SCAT- 
TERED THROUGH LA VENGRO AND ROMANY RYE. 


Common European G. forms arc in parentheses. 


Abri [avrl), out, forth. 
Adrey) 

Ambrol, a pear. 

Ande, in, into. 

Angar, charcoal, coal. 
Apopli, again, once more. 
Aukko {aveka), here is. 



Avella (3rd sing, ofaz^rtt;^), he comes; 
gorgio a., some one is coming. 
[^Avava, avesa, avela.'] 

Balluva {bald), pork. 

Balo, hog. 

Bard, f. bari, pi. bare, big, great. 

Batu, father. 

Baulo, see bald. 

Bawlor (pi. of balo), swine. 

Bebee {bibi), aunt; (in G. B. grand- 
mother, with and without grand). 

Beng, toad ; dragon, devil. 

Bengui (Sp. G. bengue), i.q. beng. 

Besh {beshava), to sit. 

Beti, a little, a bit of. 

Bitchadey (bichavde ; pi. of bich- 
avdo), sent. With pawdel, trans- 
ported. 

Bokht (bakht), fate, luck, fortune. 

Bord, see bard. 

Borodromengro, highwayman. 

Boshom {bashava, I sing or play), 
violin, fiddle. 

Boshomengro, fiddler. 

Bovald {barvald), rich. 

Bute {but), much. B. dosta, a good 
many, plenty of. 


1 Cafi {Kappi), horse-shoe nail. 

I Calord, 1, a Spanish Gypsy. Dim. 

; oi cald ; kald. 

Cambri {kamnt), with child. 
Camomescro (fr. kamama, I love), a 
Lovell (Gypsy tribe-name). 

Cana [kdnna), when. 

Caulor {collar, L.L.), pi. shillings. 
Chabd, pi. ot 

! Chabd {tchavd), child, lad; Gypsy. 

1 Chachipen {tchatchipe), truth. 

' Chal {cJiabdl or chavdl, still existant 
in Spain), lad; Gypsy. Romany 
i cli., Gypsy; R. chi, Gypsy (lass), 
i Chal {t'ovjal, from java). Ch. Dev- 
] lehi {ja Devlesa), go with God, 
i farewell. 

I Chavd, i.q. chabd. 

Chi {tchdl), girl, lass, child ; Gypsy. 
Chibando (Sp. G., see chive), tos- 
sing; preaching (a sermon). 

Chick (^t'./j/^),-dirt, mud. 

Chie, i.q. chi. 

Chiknd {tiknd), a youth. Tawno 
Ch., “ Shorty ”. 

Chinomescro (from tchinava, I cut), 
chisel, parer. 

Chipe {tchip), tongue. 

Chive {tchivava), to throw; to pass 
(false coin). 

Chivios, is cast (he). 

Chong {tumba), hill. Ch. gav, Nor- 
wich, town of the Castle hill. 
Choomer {tchunii), a kiss. 

Chore {tchorava), to steal. 

Chories, thieves. 

Chovahanee {tchovckhani), a witch. 
Chovahand {tchovekhand), a wizard. 


(3S9) 


390 


GYPSY LIST. 


Churi {tchori), knife. 

Coin who ? 

Coko (kdko), uncle. 

Colik6 {kaliko, Sp. G. calicaste, on 
the morrow), on the morrow, in 
the morning (B.’s“ early” is a mis- 
take). 

Coor {curava, I strike), to strike, to 
hammer. 

Cooromengro, boxer. 

Covantza, anvil. 

Covar {kovd), a thing. 

Cukkerin (merely alliterative with 
dukkerin), 

Curomengro, boxer. 

Czigany (Hung.), Gypsy — {tsigdn). 

Dearginni (Hung., dorog, thunder ; 
dorgeni, to th.), it thunders. 

Dick {dikava), to see. 

Dinelo {deni 16 or dinilo), a fool. 

Divvus {dives), day. 

Dloovu (error for lovo). 

Dook (Slavic), spirit, soul, divining 
spirit, demon, ghost. Russ. dn^. 

Dook, to spirit away, to bewitch. 

Dosta, enough. 

Dove odoy (fr. odovd), that there ; up 
yonder. 

Drab, herb, drug; poison, see drow. 

Drab, to poison. 

Drabengro, seller of medicines, apo- 
thecary. D. ker, apothecary’s shop. 

Drom {8p6p.os), road, way. 

Drow, i.q. drab; often pi. drugs; 
poison. 

Dui, two. 

Duk (B.’s dook). 

Dukker (fr. diik, spirit or demon, and 
ker, to make, to evoke), to tell 
any one’s fortune, to tell fortunes. 

Dukkerin (the in is Eng. ing), any 
one’s fortune or fortunes, fate ; 
fortune-telling. “ To pen ” a 
kerin is incorrect. 

Dukkerin dook, the fortune-telling 
or divining spirit. 

Dukkeripen, fortune-telling. 

Dumo {dumb), the back. 

Duvel {dev el), God. 

Duvelskoe (devlesko), divine. 

Dye {ddi), mother. 


Engro (a mere adj. ending, er, ing), 
Borrovian for “master,” “fellow,” 
“ chap ”. 

Erajai {rashcii), priest, in Sp. Gyp. 

Eray, see rye. 

Farm-engro, farmer. 

Fino, Eng. fine. 

Foros {(p6pos = dyopd), city, town. 

Gav, village, town. 

Gil, to sing. 

Gillie {ghili), song, ditty. 

Gitano, a (Sp.) Gypsy. 

Gorgikie, f. of 

Gorgiko, i, non-gypsy. 

Gorgio {gcidjb), non-gypsy, stranger, 
somebody, policeman. 

Gorgious, adj. formed from gorgio. 

Grandbebee, grandmother. See he- 
bee. 

Grasni, mare ; jade. 

Grondinni (fr. Roumanian), it hails. 

Gry {grai), horse. Pellengo g., stal- 
lion. 

Gudld, 1 , sweet ; g. pesham, honey- 
comb. 

Gul eray (Hung. G. ?), sweet gentle- 
man. 

Habben {khabe, fr. khavava, I eat), 
food, victuals ; feast. 

Harkomescro {arkichi, tin), tinker. 

Hatch, to cook (evidently fr. pekava, 
rather than atchava). 

Hinjiri (f. of hinjirb, fr. djandjir, a 
chain), executioner. 

Hir mi devlis (or diblis), by G . 

Hokkawar (khokhavava), to lie, to 
cheat. 

Hokkeripen, falsehood, deception. 

Hors-worth, pennyworth. (Hors, fr. 
grosch .^) 

luziou {shuzo), clean. 

, aw (yaz;rt), to go. See chal. 

Jawing, going. 

Jib (cAii), tongue, language. 

Juggal {jukel), dog. 

' uwa} 'voman. 

Kair, see ker. 


GYPSY LIST. 


391 


Kairdo, see Kerdo. 

Kal6, f. kali, pi. kale, black, dark. 
Kauley, f. of kaulo. 

Kaulo, see kalo. 

Kaulomescro, blacksmith. 

Ke, to. 

Kek, none. 

Kl&auyi} kettle. 

Kekauviskoe saster, kettle iron or 
hook. 

Kekkaubi, see kekaubi. 

Kekkend, no, not one. 

Ker, house. %■ 

Ker (kerava), to make, to do. 

Kerdd, made (he). 

Kil {kelava), to play. 

Kin (kinava), to buy. 

Kistur (klisava), to ride. 

Kitchema, tavern, ale-house. 

Kosko, i, good. 

K?Sus} king, see era!. 


Mek {mukava), to leave, to let ; mek 
Us, drop it. 

Men, we. 

Mensar (mensa), with us. 

Mer {merava), to die. 

Mi (me), I. 

Miduveleskoe lil, divine or godly 
book. 

Mir6, 1, my, mine. 

Miry {mirt), my. 

Morro, bread. 

Muchtar {muktar), box, tool-box. 
Mullo (mulo), dead. 

Nashkadd, f (nashavdo), lost, ruined ; 

hanged (G. B.). 

Nashky, gallows (G. B.). 

Nav, name. 


O, the. 

Odoy} 

Opre, on, upon, up. 


Lachipen, goodness. 

Lakie} 

Lavengro, “ word-master,” “ philo- 
logist ”. 

Lei {lava, lesa, lela), to take ; to 
buy. 

Len, i.q. lende. 

Lende, their, to them. 

Leste, him. 

Levinor {levina), ale. 

Lil, paper, book. 

Liri, law. 

Lis, it. 

L0II6 {lolo), red. 

Loovu, see 

Lov6, coin ; pi. love, money. 
Lubbeny {luhni), harlot. 

Lundra, London. 

Luripen, theft, robbery. 

Mailla, donkey. 

Man, me. 

Mande, to me. 

Mang {mangava), to beg. 

Manricli (manriklo), cake. 

Manrd, bread. 

Manus [manush), man. 

Mardl (error for merel : merava, me- 
resa, merela — he dies. 


Pa, over, for. 

Pal {pral), brother ; friend, mate. 

Palor {prald), brothers. 

Parraco (L.L. paracrow ; Zinc, pa- 
rauco), I thank. 

Patteran (patrin), leaf of a tree, 
Gypsy trail. 

Pawdel (perddl), on the other side, 
across. 

Pellengo {pelengro, fr.pele, testicles), 
with gry, a stallion. 

Pen {penava), to say, to tell. 

Peshotd, pi. of peshot {pishot), bel- 
lows. 

Petiil {pHalo), horse-shoe. 

Petulengro, head of the clan “ Smith ”. 

Pindrd (pinro), foot, hoof. 

Pios (fr. piava, I drink), health, in 
toasting. 

Piramus, MS. Priamus. 

Plaistra (klashta), pincers, tongs. 

Plastramengro, runner, detective. 

Poggadd, £ (panghiardo), broken. 

Poknees \paknts, a man of trust), 
magistrate. 

Praia, voc. oipal ox pral, brother. 

Pre {opre), on, upon. 

Pudamengro {ix, purdava ox pudav a, 
I blow), bellows. 

Purd, f. pur'i, pi. pure, old, ancient. 


392 


GYPSY LIST. 


Pus, straw. 

Puv [ox phuv) earth, ground. 

Ran, stick, rod, cane. 

Rani, lady, wife. 

Rarde {ratt), night. 

Rat, rate and rati, blood, race. 
Rawnie, see rani. 

Rig (?) to carry. 

Rikkeno, see rinkeno. 

Rin, a file. 

Rinkend, i, pretty, fine. 

Rom, husband ; Gypsy. 

Roman, Borrovian for Gypsy. 
Romaneskoenaes, in Gypsy fashion. 
Romanies, Gypsies. 

Romanly, in Gypsy, Gypsy-like. 
Romand, i, Gypsy. 

Romany (Anglicised form of Romano, 
i), Gypsy. 

Romany Chal, Gypsy. 

Romany Chi, Gypsy (girl). 

Romany Rye, Gypsy gentleman. 
Rome and dree (Rom andre ? Gypsy 
at heart). 

Romi, wife. 

Rommanis, in Gypsy, also wife 
(G. B.). 

Rommany, i.q. Romany. 

Rovel (3rd sing, of rovava), he weeps. 
Rup, silver. 

Rye {yai), gentleman. 

Sanpriel, Sanspareil. 

Sap, snake. 

Sapengro, snake-catcher. 

Sar shan, how art thou ? 

Sas, it was, were it. 


Sastramescro, worker in iron, smith. 
Saulo (MS. sorlo), morning ; early (?) 
Savd, what kind of a man ? who ? 
Scoppelo, ninny. 

Se (w), is, are. 

Shan (isdn), thou art. 

Sherengro (fr. sherd, the head), head 
man, chief. 

Shorn {isom), I am. 

Shoon {shunava), to hear, to listen. 
Shukaro {tchokano), hammer. 


Shunella [shunela, 3rd sing, of shu- 
nava), is listening. 

Si (isl), is, are ; si men, are we ; si 
mensar (mensa), is or are with us. 
Sinaba (Sp. G.), was. 

Sore {sare), pi. all, all who. 

Sos, who. 

Sos {iscis), was. 

Sove {sovava), to sleep. 

Swety (pi. of Russ, sviet), people, 
folks. 

Synfye, Cinthia (Slav, th is pron. 

Ta, and. 

Tachd, f, true. 

Tan, place, tent. 

Tasaulor (read ta-sorlo), to-morrow. 
Tatchend, i, modest, chaste. 
Tatchipen, truth. 

Tawnie, f. of 

Tawnd, i {tarno), little, short. 

Tove (tovava), to wash. 

Trin, three. 

Truppo {trupo), body. 

Tu, thou. 

Tute (tut), thee, to thy. 

Vagescoe, adj. oiyag. 

Vassavie, f. of. 

Vassavd, i, vile. 

Villaminni (Hung, villdm), it lightens. 

Wafodo, i, bad, false. 

Wei (corrupted from avella), to 
come, to go. 

Welling, coming. 

Wendror (connected with andro, 
within ?), the insides. 

Wesh [vesh), forest. 

Wust, to throw (better the first MS. 
form, chiv). 

Yag, fire. 

Ye, the. 

Yeck [yek), one. 

Yov {ov), he. 

Zigeuner (Ger.), Gypsy. 

Zingaro (It.), Gypsy. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR’S SOURCES. 


Abarbanel, Leo {Lavengro, p. 282). — See Note 1 . c. 

Ab Gwilym (Lavengro, p. 114). — Barddoniaeth Dafydd ab Gwilym. O 
grynhoad Owen Jones, a William Owen. [The Poetical Works of David 
ap Gwilym (son of William), edited by O. and W. O.]. Llundain, 1789. 
Sm. 8vo, pp. xliii, 548. 

Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym, 

a Welsh Bard of the Fourteenth Century. [By Arthur J. Johnes.] 
London, 1834. i2mo, pp. xliv, 127. 

Albizzi, Bart. (Romany Rye, p. 20). — L’Alcora des Cordeliers, tant en Latin 
qu’en Fra9ois : C’est a dire, la mer des blasphemes & mensonges de 
cest idole stigmatize, qu’on appelle S. Frangois, recueilli par le Docteur 
M. Luther, du liure des Conformitez de ce beau S. Frangois, imprime 
a Milan I’an M.D.X., & nouuellement traduit. A Geneve, Par Conrad 
Badius. M.D.LVI (1556). 8vo, pp. 311. — Bodl. 

Aneurin (Lavengro, p. 431). — Y Gododin. A poem on the Battle of Cat- 
traeth, by Aneurin, a Welsh Bard of the Sixth Century. With an English 
translation by J. Williams ab Ithel. Llandovery, 1852. 8vo, pp. x, 
204. 

Arbuthnot, A. (Romany Rye, pp. 24-26). — The Life, Adventures, and many 
and great Vicissitudes of Fortune of Simon, Lord Lovat, the Head of the 
Family of Frasers. From his birth at Beaufort, near Inverness, in the 
Highlands of Scotland, in 1668, to the time of his being taken by Capt. 
Millar, after three days search, in a hollow tree, on the coasts of Knoidart 
and Arisaig. By the Rev. Archibald Arbuthnot, . . . London, 1746. 
i2mo, pp. 2804-40. — Bodl. 

Bampfylde-Moore-Carew. — An Apology for the Life of Mr. Bampfylde- 
Moore-Carew, commonly call’d the King of the Beggars. Being an 
impartial Account of his Life, from his leaving Tiverton School, at the 
age of fifteen, and entering into a Society of Gipsies, to the present 
time ; wherein the motives of his conduct will be explain’d, and the 
great number of characters and shapes he has appeared in thro’ Great 
Britain, Ireland, and several other places of Europe, be related ; with 
his Travels twice thro’ great part of America. A particular account of 
the Origin, Government, Language, Laws, and Customs of the Gipsies ; 
their method of electing their king, etc. London, 1763. i2mo, pp. 
xxiv, iv, 348. Portrait. 

With a “ Cant ” or “ Flash ” vocabulary at the end, improperly called 
“ Gipsy ”. 

Barbarian Cruelty ; or an Accurate and Impartial Narrative of the unpar- 
allel’d sufferings and almost incredible hardships of the British Captives 
belonging to the Inspector, privateer, Capt. Richard Veale, Commander, 
during their slavery under the arbitrary and despotic government 
of Muley Abdallah, Emperor of Fez. and Morocco, January, 1745-46, 

(393) •. 


394 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR’S SOURCES. 


to their happy ransom and deliverance from their painful capitivity. 
London, 1751. i2mo. Plates. 

Bayne, A. D. — A Comprehensive History of Norwich, Norwich, 1869. 
8vo, pp. xxxviii, 738. 

Billy Blind {Lavengro, p. 225). — Not identified. 

Bligh, Capt. {Romany Rye, pp, 331, 335) —A Narrative of the Mutiny on 
board His Majesty’s Ship Bounty ; and the subsequent voyage of part 
of the crew, in the ship’s boat, from Tofoa, one of the Friendly Islands, 
to Timor, a Dutch settlement in the East Indies. Written by Lieu- 
tenant William Bligh. London, 1790. 4to, pp. iv, 88. Four folded 
charts and maps. — Bodl. 

A Description of Pitcairn’s Island and its inhabitants. With an 

authentic account of the Mutiny of the Ship Bounty. New York, 
1845. i2mo. 

Pitcairn : the Island, the People, and the Pastor ; with a short account 

of the Mutiny of the Bounty. By the Rev. T. B.. Murray. London, 
1853. i2mo. 

Borde, Andrew {Romany Rye, p. 319). — The fyrst boke of the Introduction 
of Knowledge. The which doth teache a man to speake parte of all 
maner of Languages, and to knowe the vsage and fashion of al maner 
of coutreys. And for to knowe the most parte of all maner of Coynes 
of money, ye which is curraunt in euery region. Made by Andrew 
Borde, of Phisicke Doctor. Dedicated to the right Honorable and 
gracio^ lady Mary doughter of our souerayne lord Kyng Henry the 
eyght. 

{N 4). Imprented at London in Lothbury ouer agaynste Sainct Mar- 
garytes church by me Wyllyam Copland {c. 1547). 4^^, 52 leaves {A-N 

in 45). Black letter, Plates. — Bodl. 

Dedication dated: “Fro Mout pyler {Montpelier], the . iii. daye of 
Maye, the yere of our Lorde. M.CCCCC.xlii.” 

Borrow {Lavengro, p. 456; Romany Rye, p. 281). — Romantic Ballads, trans- 
lated from the Danish ; and Miscellaneous Pieces ; by George Borrow. 
Norwich: S. Wilkin, 1826. 8vo, pp. xi, 187. 

Among the 146 subscribers’ names given at the end, the following may 
be recognised : — 


F(rancis) Arden, Esq., London, 
5 copies. 

J(ohn) Bowring, Esq., Hackney. 
Thomas Campbell, Esq. , London. 
T(orlough) G. O’Donnahoo, 
Esq., London, 5 copies. 

Dr. (Lewis) Evans. 


R(obert) Hawkes, Esq. 

B. R. Haydon, Esq., London. 

Rev. J. (read P.) Kennedy, Temple- 
more, Tipperary. 

Mr. R(oger) Kerrison. 

W(illiam) Rackham, Esq. 

Mr. J(ohn) Turner, London. 


Borrow (L., pp. 151, 432).— Targum. Or Metrical Translations from Thirty 
Languages and Dialects. By George Borrow. St. Petersburg. 
Printed by Schulz and Beneze. [June] 1835. 8vo, pp. viii, 106. 

The Talisman. From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin. With other 

pieces. St. Petersburg. Printed by Schulz and Beneze. [August] 
1835. 8vo, pp. 14. 

Bowring, John {Lavengro, p. 146 ; Romany Rye, p. 368).— Specimen of the 
Russian Poets: with preliminary remarks and biographical notices. 
By John Bowring, F.L.S. London: Whittaker, 1821. i2mo, pp. xxii, 
240. 

Published December, 1820. Second vol. in 1823. 


bibliography of EDITOR'S SOURCES. 


395 


Boxiana {Layengro, pp. 166-69).— Fights for the Championship, and cele- 
brated Prize Battles, from the days of Figg and Broughton to the present 
time. By the Editor of Bell's Life in London. London, 1855. 8vo, 
pp. iv, 410. See Egan. 

Braithwaite, Captain. — The history of the Revolutions in the Empire of 
Morocco, upon the death of the late*Emperor Muley Ishmael ; being a 
most exact Journal of what happen’d m those parts in the last and part of 
the present year. With observations natural, moral and political, relating 
to that country and people. Written by Captain Braithwaite, who 
accompany’d John Russell, Esq., his Majesty’s Consul General into those 
parts, etc. London, 1829. 8vo, pp. viii, 381. Map. — Bodl. 

Braithwaite, J. B. {Lavengroy pp. 93-96). — Memoirs of Joseph John 
Gurney ; with selections from his Journal and Correspondence. Nor- 
wich, 1854. 2 vols., 8vo. 

Brooke, Miss Charlotte {Romany Rye, pp. 278-82). — Reliques of Irish 
Poetry : consisting of heroic poems, odes, elegies, and songs, translated 
into English verse : with notes explanatory and historical ; and the origi- 
nals in the Irish character. Dublin, 1789. 4to, pp. xxvi, 369. — Bodl. 

The source of the Fingalian “thumb” (p. 109), “ Dermod {David) 
Odeen ” (Diarmad Mac O’Dhuivne, p. 77), “ Conan the Bald ” (pp. 79, 
106), “ Loughlin ” (Lochlin, p. 46). 

Budai Ferencz {Romany Rye, p. 233). — Magyar Orszag Polgari Histbria- 
jara val6 Lexicon. Nagy-Varad (Gross-Wardein), 1804-5. 3 vols., 8vo. 
— B.M. 

Carthew, G. A. {Lavengro, p. 15).^ — The Town We Live In. A Lecture on 
the Origin and History of East Dereham. London, 1857. i2mo. 

Croix, Frangois Petis de la {Lavengro, p. 55 ; Romany Rye, p. 369). — The 
History of Genghiscan the Great, first Emperor of the Ancient Moguls 
and Tartars, his Life, Advancements, and Conquests, Laws of the 
Ancient Moguls and Tartars, and the Geography of the vast countries of 
Mogolistan, Turquestan, Capschae, Yugurestan, and the Eastern and 
Western Tartary etc. By the late M. Petis de la Croix, senior Secretary 
and Interpreter to the King in the Turkish and Arabick Languages. 
London, 1722. 8vo. Map. 

Day, Thomas {Lavengro, p. 362). — History of Little Jack. London, 1788. 
— The History of Sandford and Merton. London, 1783-87-89. 
3 vols. — Bodl. 

Dictionary of National Biography. London, 1885-99, vols. 59. 8vo. — 
Bodl. 

Duncan Campbell {Romany Rye, p. 352). — History of the Life and 
Adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, a gentleman who, though deaf 
and dumb, writes down any strangers’ name at first sight, with their 
future contingencies of fortune ; now living in Exeter Court, over 
against the Savoy in the Strand. [By Daniel Defoe]. London, 1720. 
8vo, pp. xix, 320. Portrait and Plates. 

Hdda Ssemundar Hinns Froda. Edda Rhythmica seu Antiquior, vulgo 
Scemundina dicta. Hafniae, sumptibus Soc. Arn. Magn., 1787, 1828. 
3 vols.. 4to. — Bodl. 

See in vol. ii. (1818) : Qvida Sigvrdar Fafnisbana, or. The Song of 
Sigurd the Serpent-Slayer (pp. 124-244), including the Qvida Brynhildar, 
or Lay of Brynhild (pp. 189-210). — Romany Rye, pp. 279, 281, 358. 

Egan, Pierce. — Boxiana ; or. Sketches of Ancient and Modern Pugilism, 
from the days of the renowned Broughton and Slack, to the Champion- 


396 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR'S SOURCES. 


ship of Cribb. — Boxiana ; or, Sketches of Modern Pugilism during the 
Championship of Cribb, to Spring’s Challenge to all England. — New 
Series of Boxiana : being the only original and Complete Lives of the 
Boxers. London, 1821-24-29. 5 vols., 8vo. 

English Rogue (The) described, in the Life of Meriton Latroon, a witty 
extravagant. Being a compleat history of the most eminent cheats of 
both sexes. London, 1665-80. 4 vols., 8vo (Reprint). — Bodl. 

Chap. V. of vol. i., pp. 38-53, contains a vocabulary of English cant ; in 
it are the Borrovian words pannam, bread ; harmanbeck, constable ; 
mumpers, gentile beggars ; ken, house; tip, to give ; Rome-vile, London, 
and the verses given in the Zincali, beginning : — 

“ Bing out, bien morts, and toure and toure ”»» 

Falconer, Capt. {Romany Rye, p. 352). — The Voyages, dangerous Adven- 
tures and imminent escapes of Captain Richard Falconer . . . intermix’d 
with the Voyages ... of T. Randal. London, 1720. 8vo. 

Fortiguerra, Niccolo {Romany Rye, p. 71). — Ricciardetto di Niccolo Carter- 
omaco. Parigi, 1738. 4to, pp. xxxvi, 4204412. — Bodl. 

Index : “ Despina, principessa di Cafria, figliuola dello Scricca Impera- 
dore ”. 

Friar Bacon {Romany Rye, p. 157). — The History of Frier Bacon. London, 
1683. 8vo, 11 . 12. Plates. — Bodl. 

The Three Famous Conjurers, Fryer Bacon, Bongey, and Vandermast. 

London (168 — ). 8vo, 11 . 10. Plates. — Bodl. 

^ The History of Fryer Bacon: The Second Part: Being a most true 

and exact Relation of the most famous and merry Exploits of that worthy 
Gentleman of Renown, and deep Professor of Astrology, and most 
expert in the Magick Art, MILES WAGNER ; Being once a servant 
to that famous Conjurer Fryer Bacon, with whom he learned his Art. 
As also how he met with Paccolet upon his Wooden Horse. Lastly, 
how he by his Art was carried amongst the Stars in a fiery Chariot, 
drawn by six Dragons : And how he did eat and drink with the inhabi- 
tants of the World in the Moon. London (168 — ). 8vo, 11 . 12. Plates. — 
Bodl. 

The Famous Historie of Fryer Bacon. Containing the wonderfull 

things that he did in his life : also the manner of his death ; with the 
lives and deaths of the two Conjurers, Bungye and Vandermast. Printed 
at London . . . (1615), pp. 62. — In vol. i. oi A Collection of Early Prose 
Romances. Edited by William J. Thoms. London: Pickering, 1828. 
3 vols., 8vo. — Bodl. 

Clyde, John {Lavengro, 130-33)* — The Norfolk Garland: a Collection 

of the superstitious beliefs and practices, proverbs, curious customs, 
ballads and songs, of the people of Norfolk London (1873). 8vo, pp. 
iv, 405. 

Gorchestion Beirdd Cymru : Neu Flodau Godidowgrwydd Awen. O 
gasgliad Rhys Jones, o’r Tyddyn Mawr. [Beauties of the Bards of 
Wales; or. Flowers of Welsh Poetry. Collected by Rhys Jones of 
Great Farms.'] Amwythig {Shrewsbury), 1773. 4to. — {Lavengro, p. 
432.) 

Haggart {Lavengro, pp. 51-55).— The Life of David Haggart, alias John 
Wilson, alias John Morison, alias Barney McCoul, alias John McColgan, 
alias Daniel O’Brian, alias the Switcher. Written by himself, while 
under sentence of death. Edinburgh, 1821. i2mo, pp. viii, 173. Port. 
“ Cant” vocabulary at the end. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR’S SOURCES. 


397 


Haydon, B. R. (Lavengro, p. 223).— Life of Benjamin R. Haydon, Historical 
Painter, from his Autobiography and Journals. By Tom Taylor. 
London, 1853. 3 vols., 8vo. 

Hickathrift {Lavengro, pp. 50 & 63).— The Pleasant History of Thomas Hicka- 
thrift. [Plate.] Printed for William Thackeray, and Thomas Pass- 
more [at the Angel in Duck-lane, 1688]. i6mo, 11 . 2, pp. 18, 1 . i. 
Plates. — Bodl. 

The History of Thomas Hickathrift. Part the First [Second]. 

Printed and sold in Aldermary Church Yard, Bow Lane, London (c. 
1780). i2mo, pp. 24 + 24. Plates.— 

The History of Tom Hickathrift. Part the First [Second]. Man- 
chester : Printed by A. Swindells, 8 Hanging-bridge. i2mo, pp. 16 
+ 15 (1825 ?)• Plates. — Bodl. 

Iriarte, Tomas de {Romany Rye, p. 354). — Coleccion de Obras en Verso y 
Prosa de D. Tomas de Yriarte. Madrid, 1787. 6 vols., 8vo. 

LA VIBORA Y LA SANGUIJUELA. 

“ Aunque las dos picamos ” (dixo un dia 
La Vibora a la simple Sanguijuela), 

“ De tu boca reparo que se fia 
El hombre, y de la mia se rezela.” 

La Chupona responde : “ Ya, querida ; 

Mas no picamos de la misma suerte : 

Yo, si pico a un enfermo, le doy vida ; 

Tu, picando al mas sano, le das muerte ”. 

Vaya ahora de paso una advertencia : 

Muchos censuran, si. Lector benigno ; 

Pero a fe que hay bastante diferencia 
De un Censor util a un Censor maligno. 

— Fabula, Ixvii., vol. i. 


Keysler, J. G. {Lavengro, p. 136 ; Romany Rye, p. 23). — Travels through 
Germany, Bohemia, Hungary, Switzerland, Italy and Lorrain. Trans- 
lated from the German. London, 1756-57. 4 vols., 4to. Second ed. — 
Taylor Inst. 

Kiaempe Viser {Lavengro, pp. 141-45). — Ed. by Anders Sorenson Vedel. 

Kjobenhavn, 1591. 8vo. — G. Borrow.’'' 

Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser, udgivne af Svend Grundtvig. Kjoben- 
havn, 1853-56-62. 3 vols., sm. fol. 

Supersedes the old collections by Vedel, Syv, Nyerup, Rahbeck, etc. 
Lesag'e {Lavengro, p. 201). — Histoire de Gil Bias de Santillane. Paris, 
1815. 4 vols., i6mo. 

“ Je I’invitai a souper avec moi. 'Ah! tres volontiers,' s’ecria-t-il.” — 
Vol. i., ch. II. 

[Leti, Gregorio] {Romany Rye, p. 6). — II Nipotismo di Roma, o vero, 
Relatione delle Ragioni che muouono i Pontefici all’ Aggrandimento de’ 
Nipoti. (5./.), 1667. 2 vols. in i, i2mo (pp. 932). 

II Nipotismo di Roma: or, the History of the Popes Nephews. From 

the time of Sixtus IV. anno 1471. to the death of the late Pope. 


398 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR'S SOURCES. 


Alexander VII. anno 1667. In Two Parts. Written originally in 
Italian, and Englished by W. A., Fellow of the Royal Society. London, 
1673. i2mo (pp. 343). Portrait of Alexander VII. 

This was the edition used by Mr. Borrow, and purchased by me. 

Lhuyd, Edw. (Lavengro, p. 68). — Archaeologia Britannica, giving some 
account additional to what has been hitherto publish’d, of the languages, 
histories, and customs of the original inhabitants of Great Britain. Vol. 
i. Glossography. Oxford^ 1707. Fol. — Bodl. 

Lilly, William {Lavengro, pp. 38-39). — A Shorte Introdvction of Grammar, 
generally to be vsed in the Kynges Maiesties dominions, for the 
bryngynge up of all those that intende to atteyne the knowlege of the 
Latine tongue. An. Domini 1549. — Brevissima Institutio seu Ratio 
Grammatices cognoscendae, ad omnium puerorum vtilitatem praescripta, 
quam solam Regia Maiest. in omnibus scholis profitendam prascipit. 
Londini, anno 1549. [End.'] “Londini: apud Reginaldum Wolfium 

Regiae Maiestatis in Latinis Typographum. Anno Domini M.D.XLIX.” 
4to, 11 . 36 + 80, 2 parts in i. — Bodl. 

A Short Introduction of Grammar, generally to be used : Compiled 

and set forth for the bringing up of all those, that intend to attain to the 
knowledge of the Latin Tongue. — Brevissima Institvtio, seu Ratio 
Grammatices cognoscendae, ad omnium puerorum utilitatem ^^rscripta ; 
Quam solam Regia Majestas in omnibus scholis docendam prascipit. — 
Propria Qvae Maribvs . . . construed. London : Longman, et al., 
1811. 3 parts in i, i2mo (pp. 77, 140, 80 = 290). — Bodl. 

This last edition of 1811 would be the one the lad Borrow used at East 
Dereham in the autumn of that year. 

Loyola, Ignatius {Romany Rye, p. 351). — Vita Ignatii Loiolae. Antverpiae, 
1587, 8vo, and Romae, 1590, 8vo. — The Life of B. Father Ignatius 
of Loyola (S.L.), 1616. 8vo. — Also in the Flos Sanctorum, 6 Libro 
de las Vidas de los Santos. Madrid, 1599-1601. 2 vols., fol. 

The Life in all these forms is by Pedro de Rivadeneyra. 

Mallet. — Northern Antiquities; or, an historical account of the manners, 
customs, religion and laws, language and literature of the ancient 
Scandinavians. London: Bohn, 1859. 8vo, pp. 578. 

Matchett. — The Norfolk and Norwich Remembrancer and Vade-Mecum; 
containing ... a Chronological Retrospect of the most Remarkable 
Events which have occurred in Norfolk and Norwich from 1701 to 1821 
inclusive. Norwich: Matchett & Stevenson, 1822. Sm. 8vo, pp. 
xxiv, 256. 

Moll Flanders {Lavengro, p. 194). — The Fortunes and Misfortunes of 
the famous Moll Flanders, &c., who was born in Newgate, and during 
a Life of continu’d Variety for Threescore Years, besides her Childhood, 
was Twelve Year a W (. . .), five times a Wife (. . .), Twelve Year a 
Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grew Rich, 
liv’d Honest, and died a Penitent. Written [by Daniel Defoe] from 
her own Memorandums [in 1683]. London, 1721. 8vo, pp. vi, 366. 
First ed. 

This is Borrow’s “ Blessed Mary Flanders” ! 

Monthly Magazine, The ; or, British Register. London : for Sir Richard 
Phillips & Co., 1822-26, vols. liv.-lx. 8vo. — {Lavengro, pp. 186-87.) 

Murray {Lavengro, p. 139). — See in Sir Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Border, Kelso, 1802. 2 vols., 8vo. — “ The Song of the Outlaw 

Murray” (vol. i., pp. 5 and ff.). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR^S SOURCES. 


399 


Muses’ Library {Romany Rye, p. 318).— Historical and Poetical Medley; 
or, Muses’ Library, being a choice and faithful Collection of the best 
English Poetry from the times of Edward the Confessor to the reign of 

V-iSa King James ist, with the lives and characters of the known writers, etc. 
London, 1738. 8vo. — Bodl. 

(Newgate). — The New Newgate Calendar; or. Modern Criminal Chrono- 
logy, comprehending the most remarkable cases between 1796 and 
1826. London : Robins & Co., 1826. 3 vols., 8vo. Portrait. 

The Chronicles of Crime ; or. The New Newgate Calendar. [By 

Camden Pelham.] London, 1841. 2 vols., 8vo (pp. 1228). Plates. 

Newgate Lives and Trials {Lavengro, p. 204). — Celebrated Trials and 
Remarkable Cases of Criminal Jurisprudence, from the earliest records to 
the year 1825. London : Knight & Lacey, 1825. b vols., 8vo. Plates. 

Compiled and edited by Geo. Borrow. 

Olaus Magnus. — De Gentibus Septentrionalibus Historia. Ambergae, 1599. 
i8mo. — Taylor Inst. 

Olaus Wormius. — (Runer) Sive Danica Literatura Antiquissima vulgo 
Gothica dicta. Luci reddita opera Olai Wormii, D. M. Hafniae, anno 
M.DC.XXXVI. 4to. 

Literatura Runica. Hafniae, 1651. 4to. 

O’Reilly, Edward. — A Chronological Account of nearly four hundred Irish 
writers, down to 1750, with catalogue of their works. Dublin, 1820. 
4to. — “ G. Borrow.’’' 

Owlenglass {Lavengro, p. 225). — Von Vlenspiegel eins bauren sun des lands 
Braunschweick / wie er sein leben volbracht hat / gar mit seltzamen 
sachen. — Gedruckt zu Erffurdt durch Melcher Sachssen ynn der Archen 
Noe. M.D.XXXiij (1533). 4to. A-V in 4s & X 3. Plates. — Bodl. 

Wunderliche und seltsame Historie Tillen Eulenspiegels, eines 

Bauern Sohn, aus dem Lande zu Braunschweig gebiirtig. Welche aus 
Niedersachsischer Sprache ins Hochdeutsche ubersetzt, und sehr 
kurzweilig zu lesen. Aus verlangen sehr vieler guten Freunde aufs neue 
wieder aufgelegt. — Gedruckt in diesem Jahre. Frankfurth a. d. O., 
bei Trowitzsch und Sohn. (S..<4.). A-K in 8s. 8vo. Plates. — Borrow’ s 
copy. 

The German Rogue ; or, the Life and Merry Adventures, Cheats, 

Stratagems, and Contrivances of Tiel Eulespiegle. Made English from 
the High-Dutch. London, 1720. 8vo, 11. 2, pp. in. — Bodl. 

Parny {Romany Rye, pp. 344, 357). — Guerre des Dieux, anciens et modernes : 
poeme en dix chants. Seconde edition. Paris: Didot, an vii (1798). 
8vo, pp. 204. 

Patten, R. — The History of the late Rebellion, with Original Papers and 
Characters of the principal Noblemen and Gentlemen concern’d in it. 
By the Rev. Mr. Robert Patten, formerly Chaplain to Mr. Foster. Second 
edition, with large additions. London, 1717. 8vo. — Bodl. 

Phillips, Sir Richard {Lavengro, p. 205). — The Proximate Causes of 
Material Phenomena, and the true principles of universal causation 
considered. Second edition. London, 1821. 8vo. — Bodl. 

{Lavengro, p. 254.) — Ueber die nachsten Ursachen der materiellen 

Erscheinungen des Universums. Von Sir Richard Philipps {sic). Nach 
dem Englischen bearbeitet von General v. Theobald und Prof. Dr. 
Lebret. Stuttgart, 1826. 8vo, pp. xxxii, 429. 

Four Dialogues between an Oxford Tutor and a Disciple of the 

Common-sense Philosophy, relative to the proximate causes of material 
phenomena. London, 1824. 8vo. — Bodl. 


400 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITORS S SOURCES. 


See Lavengro: “Oxford” principles (pp. igo, 216), theory (p. 215), 
politics (p. 228), Oxford-like manner (pp. 215, 216), “Oxford” Review 
(pp. 190, 215). 

Piers Ploughman [Romany Rye, p. 315). — The Vision and the Creed of Piers 
Ploughman. With notes and a glossary by Thomas Wright. London : 
Pickering, 1842. 2 vols., sm. 8vo. 

Pocahontas [Romany Rye, p. 352). — The Indian Princess ; or, the Story of 
Pocahontas. By Edward Eggleston and Lillie Eggleston Seelye. 
London (1880?). i2mo, pp. 310. 

American Statesmen. John Randolph. By Henry Adams. Bos- 
ton, 1884. i2mo, pp. vi, 313. 

Psalmboek, Hebreus en Nederlants, door Leusden. Amsterdam, 1666. 
i8mo. George Borrow ejus liber, 1821.” — [Lavengro, pp. 151, 160.) 

Pulci [Lavengro, p. 497 ; Romany Rye, pp. 6g, 316). — Morgante Maggiore di 
Lvigi Pvlci Firentino, etc. Venetia, 1546. 4to, 11 . 4, If. 199. — Bodl. 

II Morgante Maggiore, di Luigi Pulci. Londra [Livorno), 1768. 

3 vols., i6mo. 

Records of the West Norfolk Militia: I. Original Enrollment Book, 1787- 
1815. II. Regimental Order Book, 1812-15.' 2 vols., fol. — Household 
Barracks, Norwich. 

* Richmond, Rev. Legh [Lavengro, pp. 189, 197, 202).— The Dairyman’s 
Daughter [i.e., Elizabeth Wallbridge]: An authentic narrative. By a 
clergyman of the Church of England. London, 1810, 1817, i8ig, 1824, 
etc. 

Annals of the Poor. By the Rev. Legh Richmond, M.A., late 

Rector of Turvey, Bedfordshire. London : The Religious Tract Society, 
1842. 24mo, pp. 240. 

1. The Dairyman's Daughter, pp. loi. 

2. The Negro Servant. 

3. The Young Cottager. 

4. The Cottage Conversation. 

5. A Visit to the Infirmary. 

One of the first of the “ Evangelicals” [Romany Rye, p. 37). 

(Sagas). — Fornmanna Sogur. Kaupmannahafn, 1825-37. 12 vols., 8vo. 

—Bodl. 

''Bui hin Digri,” vol. x., p. 258. 

Fornaldar Sogur Nordlanda eftir gomlum handritum, utgefnar af C. C. 

Rafn. Kaupm., 1829-30. 3 vols., 8vo. — "G. Borrow." 

See also Snorro and Wilkina. 

Saxonis Grammatici Historia Danica. S. J. Stephanus recog. notisque 
illustravit, Sorae, 1644-45. 2 vols., fol. Plates. — “ G. H. Borrow." 

Ed. P. E. Muller. Havniae, 1839-58. 2 vols., roy. 8vo. — Bodl. 

Smith, Capt. Alex. — A Compleat History of the Lives and Robberies of 
the most notorious Highwaymen, Footpads, Shoplifts, and Cheats, of 
both sexes, about London and Great Britain, for above an hundred 
years past. London, 1719. i2mo. — Library of G. B. 

Snorro Sturleson [Lavengro, pp. 12, 46). — Heims Kringla / eller Snorre 
Sturlusons Nordlandske Konunga Sagor. Sive Historiag Regum Septen- 
trionalium, a Snorrone Sturlonide, ante secula quinque, patrio sermone 
antique conscriptae, quas . . . illustravit lohann Peringskiold. Stock- 
holmiae, 1697. 2 vols., fol. — Bodl. 

Snorre Sturlesons Norske Kongers Sagaer. Oversatte [paa Danske] 

af Jacob Aal. Christiania, 1838-39. 3 parts in i, fol. — Bodl. 

"Bui hin Digri," part i, p. 138. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR'S SOURCES. 


401 


Snorro Sturleston. — Snorre Sturles(|)ns Norske Kongers Chronica. Vdsat 
paa Danske / aff H. Peder Clauss4)n. Kidbenhavn, 1633. 4to, 11 . 12, 
pp. 858, 11 . II. 

“Bmz hin Digri” p. 136. 

“Torstein Midlang hug til Boo tvert ofver Ansictet / oc hug Mund- 
stycket bort med all Hagen. Boo sagde / ugierne skulle de Danske 
Moer nu kysse mig / om jeg kommer nogen tid hiem igien / og hand hug 
til Torstein igien / uden paa siden / og hug hannem i to stycker. Da 
kom Sigmund Brestes</)n / en Faeroisk Mand / oc hug baade Haender aff 
Boo i Handledit / saa at de fulde met Sverdet ned paa Skibet. Boo 
stack Armstumpene i baandene paa to kister / som stode ved Borde / 
fulde aff Quid oc Solff / som hand rofvit havde / oc raabte hojt / ‘For 
borde f for borde / alle Bois Tienere' / oc hand storte sig ofver borde 
met Kisterne. Der efter sprunge mange aff bans mend for borde / oc 
mange blefve slagne i Skibet / thi ey var det got om Fred at bede.” 

Spira, Francis {Romany Rye, p. 352). — P'rancisci SPiERi®, qvi, qvod svscep- 
tam semel Euagelic? ueritatis profession^ abnegasset, damnassetq; in 
horrendam incidit desperationem, Historia, a quatuor summis uiris, 
‘'umma fide conscripta : cum clariss. uirorum Praefationibus, Caelij 
S(ecundi) C(urionis), & lo. Caluini, & Petri Pauli Vergerij Apologia, in 
quibus multa hoc tempore scitu digna grauissime tractantur. Accessit 
quoq; Martini Borrhai, de usu, quern Spierae turn exemplum, turn 
doctrina afferat, iudicium. 2. Petri 2 (etc.) Basileae, M.D.L. (1550). 
i6mo, 11 . 7, pp. 191, 11 . 4. — Bodl. 

A Relation of the Fearfvl Estate of Francis Spira, in the year 1548. 

Compiled by Natth. Bacon, Esq. London, 1649. i6mo, pp. 80. — Bodl. 

Steven, William {Lavengro, p. 46). — The History of the High School of 
Edinburgh. Edinburgh, 1849. 8vo, pp. xx, 367 + 220. Plates. 

Taylor, William {Lavengro, p. 146). — Historical Survey of German Poetry, 
interspersed with various translations. London, 1830. 3 vols., 8vo. 

A Memoir of the Life and Writings of the late William Taylor of 

Norwich, containing his correspondence with Robert Southey. Com- 
piled and edited by J. W. Robberds. London, 1843. 2 vols., 8vo. 

“ With the Author’s Compliments to George Borrow, Esq.” 

Thurtell, John {Lavengro,\^^. 157-8, 171 ; Romany Rye, pp. 268-71). — “Obser- 
ver : ” London, loth January, 1824. With woodcuts. — “ Norwich 
Mercury:” 8th, 15th, 22nd November, 1823; 3rd, loth, 17th January, 
1824. — “ Monthly Magazine : ” ist December, 1823, P* 472 ; ist 
February, 1824, p. 92. 

The Trial of John Thurtell and Joseph Hunt, for the Murder of Mr. 

William Weare, in Gill’s Hill Lane, Herts, before Mr. Justice Park, on 
Tuesday, the 6th, and Wednesday, the 7th January, 1824 ; with the 
Prayer, and the Condemned Sermon, that was preached before the un- 
happy Culprits ; also, full particulars of the Execution. Embellished 
with six engraved views, taken expressly for this edition by Mr. Calvert. 
London: Hodgson & Co., 1824. 8vo, pp. 91. Plates. 

Pierce Egan’s Account of the Trial of John Thurtell and Joseph Hunt ; 

with an Appendix, disclosing some extraordinary facts, exclusively in 
the possession of the Editor, with Portraits, and many other illustrative 
Engravings. London : Knight & Lacey, 1824. 8vo, pp. 105. Plates. 

The Fatal Effects of Gambling exemplified in the Murder of Wm. 

Weare, and the Trial and Fate of John Thurtell, the Murderer, and his 
Accomplices ; with Biographical Sketches of the Parties concerned, 
etc. London: Thomas Kelly, 1824. 8vo, pp. xxii, 512. 

26 


402 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR’S SOURCES. 


Thurtell, John. — Celebrated Trials, etc. London, 1825. Vol. vi., p. 534.. 
Article by Mr. Borrow. 

Till Eulenspiegel {Lavengro, p. 225). — See Owlenglass. 

Vambery, Hermann {Romany Rye, p. 225). — Der Ursprung der Magyaren. 
Eine Ethnologische Studie. Leipzig, 1882. 8vo, pp. xii, 587. — 
Taylor Inst. 

Villotte, Jacobus {Lavengro, .p. 175 ; Romany Rye, p. 92). — Dictionarium 
Novum Latino-Armenium ex praecipuis Armeniae Linguae Scriptoribus 
concinnatum : Accedit Tabula Regum et Patriarcharum utriusque 
Armeniae. Romae, 1714. Thick fol. — Bodl. 

The Latin-Armenian Dictionary, with a Grammar prefixed, from 
which Borrow drew the Haikian words and forms displayed in Lavengro 
and Romany Rye, such as kini, wine ; hatz, bread ; dzow, sea ; the 
verbs hntal, siriel, etc. 

Wace {Romany Rye, p. 320). — Le Roman de Rou et des Dues de Normandie, 
par Robert Wace, poete normand du xiie siecle ; public pour la premiere 
fois par F. Pluquet. Rouen, 1827. 2 vols., 8vo. 

Walker, J. C. {Lavengro, p. 233). — Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards. 
Dublin, 1786. 4to. — Bodl. 

Wayland Smith. — A Dissertation on a Tradition of the Middle Ages. 
From the French of G. B. Depping and Francisque Michel. London, 
1847. i2mo, pp. 163. 

Mr. Borrow’s “Volundr” or “Velint”. — Lavengro, p. 444. 

Webb, Alfred. — Compendium of Irish Biography. Dublin, 1878. 8vo. 
—Bodl. 

Weir, George {Romany Rye, p. 21 1). — Historical and Descriptive Sketches 
of the Town and Soke of Horncastle, in the County of Lincoln, and of 
several places adjacent. London, 1820. Large 8vo, pp. vi, 119. 
Plates and Map. 

Wells, J. S. {Lavengro, p. 169). — The Norwich Minstrel ; containing seve- 
ral hundred of the most admired and approved Songs, interspersed with 
select and original Poetry. Compiled by J. S. Wells. Norwich, 
1831. i2mo, pp. iv, 251. 

White, Wm. — History, Gazetteer, and Directory of Norfolk, and the City 
and County of the City of Norwich. Sheffield, 1854. 8vo, pp. 881. 

History, Gazetteer, and Directory of Suffolk, etc. Sheffield, 1844. 

8vo, pp. 756. 

Ed. 1855. 8vo, pp. 824. 

Wight Wallace {Lavengro, p. 63). — The Life and Acts of the most 
famous and valiant Champion, Syr William Wallace, Knight of Ellerslie : 
Maintainer of yc Liberty of Schottland.- [Written by Blind Harry in 
the year 1361.] Printed at Edinburgh by Andrew Hart, 1620. i6mo, 
pp. 341, 11 . 2. Black Letter. — Bodl. 

P. 341, after Finis : — 

“ Thus endeth William Wallace wight, 

Behinde him left not such a Knight 
Of worthinesse and deed of hand ; 

From thraldom thrice he fred this land 

The Life and Acts of Sir William Wallace, of Ellerslie. By Henry 

the Minstrel. (Published from a MS. of 1488 with Notes by Dr. 
Jamieson.) Edinburgh, 1820. 4to, pp. xx, 444. — Bodl. 

This rhymed “ Story-book of Wight Wallace ” is in twelve parts or 
books. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR'S SOURCES. 


403 


Wilkina Sag^a. — Sagan om Didrik af Bern. Efter Svenska Handskrif- 
ter utgifven af Gunnar Olof Hylten-Cavallius. Vol. v. af Samlingar 
utgifna af Svenska Fornskrift-Sdllskapet. Stockholm, 1850. 8vo, pp. 
xlv, 487. — Bodl. 

Stories of Sigurd (Siegfrid), Gunnar (Gunther), Brynhilda (Brunhilt). 

Worm, J. — Fors<^g til et Lexicon over Danske, Norske, og Islandske 
Laerde Maend, Helsingoer, 1771-84. 3 vols., 8vo. — “G. Borrow." 

Wynn, Ellis {Lavengro, pp. 404-5). — Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg : yn 
Cynnws I. Gweledigaeth Cwrs y Byd. II. Gweledigaeth Angai. III. 
Gweledigaeth Uffern. Gan Ellis Wynn. Caerfyrddin, 1811. lamo, 
PP- 77- 

The Sleeping Bard ; or Visions of the World, Death, and Hell. By 

Elis Wyn. Translated from the Cambrian British by George Borrow. 
London, i860. 8vo, pp. vii, 128. 


W. 1. Knapp, 

High St., Oxford, 

November^ 1899. 


ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS. 









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